Just for fun
by LittlePippin76
Summary: This is primarily the story of Scarlet Watson; John's daughter, and explores the canon characters in relation to her.  It's fun, it's dots about in regards to tone, Genres, Scarlet's age etc. NOW REOPENED!
1. The Beginning

**Chapter 1: The Beginning**

**Chapter kindly betaed by goldvermilion87**

**This was a piece I started as I needed something to write while waiting for a 'proper plot' to happen. It's off canon, and in some places it might be described as out of character too. Certainly I'm staying more true to the characters in my head than I am necessarily to the ones in the series. The original point was 'for fun' and as a playing field for me to develop my writing habits and skills.**

**Anyhow, people seem to like it, and I personally can't get enough of 'Scarlet Fever' as I tend to refer to this story in real life.**

**DISCLAIMER. The characters of Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Mrs Hudson, DI Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes, and though they don't feature highly, Molly, Donovan, Anderson et. al, are owned by the BBC. Any views stated in this fiction are put into their minds by me, and are not indicative of anything other than my interpretation of the characters.**

**The character of Scarlet Watson is my own invention.**

**Please enjoy.**

**LP.**

**

* * *

**John stared at the computer screen in his office and sighed. Every week. Every Tuesday at ten o'clock, it was the same patient. And there was never anything wrong with him.

There was nothing for it. He buzzed him in.

"Good morning. I'm Doctor Watson. How can I help you?" The spiel was memorised, dull and reeled out without any feeling at all.

"I know who you are!" Sherlock snapped. "Why do you keep telling me who you are?"

"I'm required to introduce myself to new patients."

"I'm not a new patient!" Sherlock frowned at him.

"I know. I'm pretending you are. It's easier."

Sherlock sat back in his chair and beamed at him. John sat with his elbow on his desk propping his head up on his hand. He played with a paperclip.

"I have an injury," Sherlock told him with a pleased look on his face.

"No you don't."

"Yes I do!"

"No, you make an appointment to see me every Tuesday. I've told you that you can't do that without being ill so now you're making stuff up. I'm thinking of restricting your Internet access so you can't get on to web-doctor."

"You're coming to visit?" Sherlock sounded excited.

"No."

"Oh."

"Why does Melanie keep making you appointments anyway? I've told her not to."

"I think she likes me." Sherlock grinned at him.

"I can't think why," John muttered. He sighed and continued playing with the paperclip.

"Will you come to Norfolk with me?" Sherlock asked him.

"What? No!"

"I've got a case."

"No!"

"But John, I need someone with me on whom I can completely rely."

"No."

"It could be dangerous."

John rolled his eyes. "No."

Sherlock pouted. "You're being unreasonable."

"No I'm not. Have you entirely forgotten about Mary?"

"Mary? Oh, wife-thingy. Her you mean?"

"Yes, I mean my wife-thingy."

"She wouldn't mind! Not Mary! She's a perfectly reasonable woman. I knew it the first time I met her."

John thought back to the first time he'd introduced Mary to Sherlock. Under the circumstances she had indeed been very, very patient.

"Sherlock; of course she would mind! She's going to give birth any day now! She won't want me gallivanting off to Norfolk with you!"

"I knew she was a mistake when you married her!"

"No she wasn't. I, _me_, I don't want to go to Norfolk with you. I'm really looking forward to meeting my child! I don't want to miss it!"

"You're having a baby?"

John stared at him. "Yes! You _know_ that! I told you about it in the spring! I've mentioned it countless times since"

"No, you told me Mary was pregnant in the spring," Sherlock countered. "And I don't recall you mentioning it since."

"I told you I was shopping for prams! I've suggested names!"

"Oh, was that what that was about? Oh."

"Didn't the fact that Mary was pregnant give you a bit of a clue that a baby would turn up?" John asked him, exasperated.

"I don't know how long these things take; I thought it was ages yet. Or that she'd had it and I'd deleted it."

"Deleted?"

"Yes, you know this. _The brain is a computer. I delete irrelevant things to make room for relevant things._ I've told you about this before."

John stared at him. "You'd delete the birth of my child?"

Sherlock heard an edge in John's voice. He looked up at him. "Not good?"

"No, no it's fine." John said, clearly hurt. "I guess you get to choose what's relevant in your life. Right. You've had your twelve minutes. Get out."

"I've only had seven and you haven't looked at my injury yet!"

"There isn't any injury."

"Yes there is!" Sherlock unbuttoned his cuff and rolled back his sleeve.

There was a weeping sore, about the size of a five-pound note, on his forearm. It was a burn. It was clearly several days old and it was flaming red and dirty round the edges.

John got up at once and pulled Sherlock into the treatment room. "When did this happen?"

"Saturday."

Three days old. "Sherlock you should have gone to A&E immediately."

"Why, when I have an appointment with you already booked?"

"This is infected now. Sit up on that!" He waved at the examination bed.

Sherlock dutifully hopped up on to the bed. He held his sleeve right back to give John full access to the wound.

John worked quickly and precisely. He put a large amount of a silver-based cream onto the sore, covered this with plastic gauze and finally wrapped it firmly with a bandage. He shoved a thermometer into Sherlock's ear.

He only had a very mild fever. John was confident that it was just a mild infection and that there was no imminent risk of septicaemia.

"I'm going to prescribe some antibiotics for you," John told him and went back into the main room. Sherlock followed, straightening his clothing.

"Here. Get that filled," he said shortly as he quickly scrawled his signature on the bottom of it. "Take them three times a day; don't forget to take them and do complete the whole course. You'll need the dressing changed daily. Make an appointment with one of the practice nurses."

"With a _nurse_?"

"Yes with a nurse. If your temperature goes up or you experience any other symptoms... you can call me."

Sherlock grinned broadly. The grin faltered when John didn't smile back.

"John..."

"Hm?" John was turned to the computer, typing details into Sherlock's file.

"When your baby is born, I will make every attempt not to delete it."

John half smiled.

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes. I'm sure I'll see you again soon."

"Thank you, Doctor Watson."


	2. Side Effects

Kindly Betaed by GoldVermilion

**Side effects**

John was on the sofa with Mary in their living room. It was softly lit by standing lamps, and it was warm, cosy and they were delightfully relaxed. The TV was on, but neither of them was paying it any attention.

Mary was leaning against him with her feet up on the sofa, using John's chest as a cushion. They were both concentrating on the strange, painless tightening in the huge bump on Mary's belly.

These tightenings were painless, but odd. Each one made Mary catch her breath. They were short though, each was no more than five or ten seconds each. Sometimes half an hour would go by and there would be none, then another would happen and John and Mary would feel another rush of excitement.

"I'm sure they're just Braxton hicks," Mary told John.

"Yes, I'm sure too." John said. He was certain of it. That certainty didn't stop him internally leaping round the room with excitement, though.

His phone beeped. It was a message from Sherlock.

'_New symptom: Nausea_._ SH_'

John deleted it and put his phone down.

"What was it?" Mary asked.

"Just spam," he replied. He nuzzled the top of her head, smelling her hair and kissing her lightly.

Ten minutes later the phone beeped again. It was another message from Sherlock.

'_New symptom: SEVERE nausea.'_

John checked his watch. Sherlock had been taking his antibiotics for about thirty-six hours. It would be the right time for him to experience side effects, so John deleted again, without worrying.

"More spam?" Mary asked.

"Just Sherlock. He wants to check you're OK."

"Aw, he can be quite sweet sometimes, can't he?" she said, with a smile.

"Mm. Probably," he agreed automatically. He then frowned at the image of a 'sweet' Sherlock Holmes. The idea of Sherlock turning up with flowers and a teddy bear didn't quite work in John's mind. Well, not without an ulterior motive anyway.

"Oo, ouch! Did you feel that kick?" she cried, cutting through his thoughts.

"I could see it from the outside!" John exclaimed, chuckling with pleasure.

They continued to stare at the bump for a full fifteen minutes.

John's phone beeped again, bringing them back to the present.

It was another message from Sherlock. John sighed and opened it.

_New symptom: Vomiting_.

"Good," muttered John, not feeling remotely sympathetic.

"What?"

"Oh, nothing," he dismissed the phone and smiled at her.

"Is he OK?" she persisted.

"Yes, he's fine. I'm much more interested in how you are right now." He lifted her ponytail and kissed her neck. She snuggled into him.

"I'm fine," she told him. "Excited, but fine."

He traced his hand over the bump. "I'm excited too," he whispered.

His phone beeped as another text arrived. He ignored it. A few minutes later there was another beep. He huffed and sat up to read the messages, and Mary shifted so she was now leaning against the back of the sofa.

Text one read: '_You've poisoned me.'_

Text two was: '_You've poisoned me and you don't care.'_

John texted a response: '_You're fine. Drink water, eat toast, go to bed.'_

He put the phone back down and tried to pull Mary back towards him.

"No, I'm not moving again!" she told him.

"Sorry," he said sheepishly.

"It's fine," she said with a sigh.

John settled for holding her hand and he was relieved that she didn't pull it away from him.

Another beep. John grimaced and shut his eyes. He opened them again to read the text.

'_New symptom: Fever.'_

John hesitated. Fever was a problem. It could indicate that the infection was spreading, in which case Sherlock really needed to see a doctor. And Sherlock wouldn't see any doctor but him without a fight. John bit his lip, thinking.

"Why don't you just call him?" Mary asked.

John glanced at her. She looked cross. "No, it's OK," he told her, and put the phone down. He stared at it and drummed his fingers absent-mindedly on her leg.

"John, it's fine," she insisted. "Really, I'd rather you just called him than spent the rest of the night texting and fretting."

He really did want to get to the bottom of this fever. "I'll be two minutes," he told her, taking the phone into the bedroom so as not to disturb her.

Sherlock had clearly been sat, phone in hand, waiting for John's call.

"I hate you," he said.

"Yeah, I hate you too," John replied. "Tell me about this fever of yours."

"My temperature is 37.2," Sherlock announced, sounding strangely triumphant.

"What? That's not a fever!"

"Yes it is! My temperature is usually 36.9!"

"But it was higher than that when you were in my office! It's within the normal range and it's bound to go up a bit with the vomiting. Sherlock, you're fine!"

"I'm very sick!" Sherlock protested.

"Well I'm not coming over there to hold you head! Just...grow up, won't you!"

John looked up. Mary was standing in the doorway looking pale and terrified. He slowly lowered the phone.

"The last one hurt!" She told him. She was shaking slightly, but gave him a tight smile.

John stared at her for a moment. The tinny noise of Sherlock calling his name pulled him back to the present. He picked the phone back up.

"Yeah, Sherlock, I've got to go." John hung up.


	3. Birth Story

**Birth Story**

They waited an hour but there were no further action, so they decided to go to bed to try to get some sleep. In John's case this was futile. Despite both military and medical training, he was terrified. He kept mentally repacking the hospital bag, and any time he started to drift off the thought "I wonder if we've packed enough towels?" would jerk him awake again.

The contractions started again in the early hours of the morning. At about 5:00 Mary got up to walk around for a bit and her water broke. They stared at each other for a full minute before Mary grabbed a towel to shove between her legs.

John sat up on the bed and continued to stare.

"Er... I'll get... I'll get..." he started.

"A cab?" Mary finished for him, smiling.

"Yeah. One of those."

"You'll probably want to get dressed too."

"Yeah. I suppose so." He sat on the bed, wide-eyed, and didn't move.

Suddenly Mary gasped and doubled over, groaning in pain.

"Do you want some paracetamol?" he offered her.

She smiled again. "No, I don't think paracetamol is going to cut it. Dress and get a cab."

"Right."

oOo

The next few hours passed in a blur. John knew that everything was progressing in a perfectly ordinary fashion, but that didn't stop him feeling completely panicked.

Mary had been quietly moaning for hours, but suddenly she groaned loudly and the anguish John felt for her in that moment shocked him to the core.

"Just make it stop!" He yelled at the midwife.

Mary sniggered through her pain. "For heaven's sake, John, I'm supposed to say that!"

"What about one of those back thingies - the ones with the needle?"

"An epidural? I don't want one yet. I can handle this."

She certainly seemed to be handling it better than he was.

They were interrupted by another nurse.

"John Watson?"

John looked up. "Yes, that's me."

"There's a man here to see you."

"What?"

"He says his name is... Shylock?"

"Oh God," John groaned, "tell him to go away."

The nurse looked anxiously at him, but left anyway. John turned his attention to Mary. She looked concerned.

"Don't worry. I'm not going anywhere."

She nodded, and focused on the pain again.

A moment later the nurse was back.

"Er, Mr. Watson? He says it's urgent."

"It's not urgent. Get rid of him." He didn't look away from Mary.

More contractions. More pain. The nurse came back.

"Mr. Watson..."

"Oh just tell him to fuck off!" John roared at her.

The room went suddenly quiet.

"Sorry," he said, quietly. "I'm... really sorry."

"John, just go and talk to him," Mary begged.

He looked at her, weighing up how difficult it would be to get rid of Sherlock, against how difficult it would be for Mary to go on with these constant interruptions.

"I'll be two minutes," he told her and ducked out into the corridor.

He marched up to Sherlock.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

"You weren't at the surgery."

"What?" John looked at his watch. It was eleven o'clock. "God, we've been here six hours," he murmured, suddenly exhausted. A moment later he remembered Sherlock was still there. "What do you want?"

"My dressing needs changing." He held up his arm.

"So? I told you to make an appointment with a nurse!"

"I don't want to see a nurse. I want to see you!"

"Well I'm not there!" John yelled.

"No shit... John!"

John stared at him for a moment. "You're not going to leave, are you?"

Sherlock considered this. "No, it seems unlikely."

"Right." He pulled Sherlock through to a small waiting room and shoved him into a chair. "You'll wait there. You will sit and wait quietly or you will go away!"

Sherlock appeared to be quite shocked. He nodded.

John left.

oOo

Five long hours later and John staggered back along the corridor towards Sherlock. He looked drunk. He was smiling broadly while simultaneously unable to stop crying. He dropped down into a chair next to Sherlock.

Sherlock watched him for a moment.

"Are you OK?" he finally asked.

"Yeah. Yeah I'm fine." He continued to smile while batting tears away.

"Is Mary OK?" Sherlock asked him.

"Yeah. Yeah she's just having a bath."

Sherlock nodded. John's tears were stopping. He was staring at a floor tile as if it were revealing the mysteries of the universe to him.

"Was the baby... born?"

"What? Oh! Yes." Tears filled John's eyes again. "I'm a Dad, Sherlock! I'm a Dad! She's gorgeous!" He put his feet on the chair and hugged his knees with joy.

"A daughter then?" Sherlock deduced.

"Yeah! A girl! Oh she's perfect, Sherlock!" He turned and drummed his fists against Sherlock's upper arm, grinning. "I'm a Dad! I'm a Dad! I'm a Dad!" he repeated.

Sherlock grinned too, then slowly started to chuckle.

"Sorry!" John said, suddenly, trying to smooth down Sherlock's jacket sleeve. He leapt up. "I should get back to Mary. Back to them both. Both of my girls!" He giggled.

"John!" Sherlock was standing now, too.

"Hm?"

"Congratulations!"

John looked at him surprised and slightly confused. "Oh come here!" He said, and pulled Sherlock into a massive hug. Sherlock worried for his ribcage.

"Stick around," John said, releasing him. "I want you to meet her." He jogged back down the hall and into a room….backed out, apologizing profusely, and tried the next.

_Kindly beta'd by GoldVermillion_


	4. Turnip!

**Turnip!**

Mary was moved out to the post-natal ward for an overnight stay. John didn't register that Sherlock had gone from the waiting area as he passed. The small family was settled into a corner bed and left to themselves.

Half an hour later Sherlock wandered onto the ward and found them again. As he looked at them, he had a moment of feeling that he shouldn't intrude. Mary was lying back with her eyes closed, but he didn't think she was sleeping. John was sitting on an armchair next to her with his feet propped up on the side of her bed. In the V of his lap he was holding a small pink bundle, and he was staring at it intently.

John glanced up and noticed Sherlock watching him.

"Oh! You're still here! I thought you'd gone."

Mary opened her eyes. "'llo Sherlock." she said.

"Hello Mary." He frowned at her. "Are you OK? You're looking a bit pale."

She smiled at him. "I'm fine, thank you, Sherlock." She closed her eyes again.

"Come and see." John told him.

Sherlock approached cautiously. He peered at the little bundle.

"Is it supposed to look like that?" Sherlock asked him.

"Yes. She's gorgeous, isn't she?"

Sherlock frowned. The thing seemed to have a tiny scrunched up face in an unnaturally round head. She was bright red for some reason. Her forehead was wrinkled in a deep frown, and though her eyes were closed for most of the time, when she opened them she seemed to prefer to do so one at a time. She kept jerking her one un-swaddled arm about in an uncontrolled fashion.

"She looks a bit like a turnip." Sherlock concluded.

John snorted.

"A red turnip." Sherlock clarified.

"A beautiful turnip." John responded.

"Her nose is oddly big. I thought it would be smaller than that. It doesn't look at all proportional."

Sherlock continued frowning. John continued smiling.

"Would you like to hold her?" Mary asked.

"God, no!" Sherlock said, taking a huge step backwards and knocking into the wall.

John snorted again. "I wouldn't let you have her anyway."

"Oh, I bought you this," Sherlock said, holding a bag towards Mary. "Well, not you really. It's for it. Her."

Mary took a small bear with a pink bow on its head out of the bag.

"There were blue ones, too. I think I'm expected to gender stereotype already. Is it OK? I can get the other one if you think she'd prefer blue..."

"It's lovely. Thank you." Mary told him, still smiling.

"Will she have a name?" Sherlock asked them.

"It's certainly more usual to name them," John answered. "We were thinking of Scarlet."

"Oh that suits her!" Sherlock said, sounding oddly enthusiastic. "Scarlet Turnip Watson. Perfect."

John and Mary continued to smile.

"I should leave you alone." Sherlock said.

"Actually, Sherlock, could you do me a favour?" Mary asked.

"Of course."

"Could you take John home? No, take him to Baker Street with you; give him some food and make him go to sleep."

"I'm not leaving you!" John protested. "You've just had a baby!"

"Yes, and visiting hours are nearly up. There are loads of nurses here if I need help. I'll see you in the morning."

"I'll wait outside for you." Sherlock told him and disappeared.

John said his goodbyes, and then said more goodbyes and then yet more.

He found Sherlock waiting for him just outside of the ward.

"How's the, um, the arm?" John asked him.

"Fine. I had it redressed. There are lots of nurses here."

"Good. And the stomach?"

"Fine too."

"Good."

"John, I don't want you to worry." Sherlock said suddenly, looking serious. John looked up at him with a frown. "I had a quick look at the other babies on your ward. Yours seems to be perfectly normal."

John laughed. "Thank you, Sherlock."

"I'd go so far as to say substantially better than most. She's going to be clever. She's got that look about her."

"Good! That's good to know." John said. "So you won't be deleting her then?"

"No, I don't think so. I think I can make room for her."

"Good."

They wandered off in search of a cab


	5. Adapting

**Adapting**

Over the next week, if John's brain had been functioning anywhere near its full capacity, he'd have noticed that Sherlock was not behaving as he usually did.

Under normal circumstances, he would never leave his flat unless he was working, but now he started visiting the Watsons' flat every day.

He was never simply coming to visit them, either. John had never known Sherlock shy about demanding attention before, but now he seemed desperate to come up with some excuse for his presence. John was just aware enough to recognise that "I was just on my way to... to church" was quite likely to be a lie. Especially on a Monday afternoon.

During these visits, which were generally quite short, he didn't want to touch or hold Scarlet. He just peered at her and made observations.

"Why is she yellow?" he asked on day two. "She was red before, and now she's yellow! What did you do to her?"

John explained that mild jaundice was not unusual in newborns and that they'd be able to feed it out of her.

On day four he commented that she appeared to have grown into her nose. "She's much more proportional now," he told them in a satisfied voice, before John sent him on his way.

Another oddity was that he'd taken to bringing gifts for Scarlet on virtually every visit. John had always felt that Sherlock was a generous man, certainly with his time and attention, but he'd never know him actively source and give a specific gift. He'd clearly put quite some thought into these offerings. Some were wildly inappropriate.

"Er, thanks! I'm sure that will come in handy!" John told him, while accepting a large book entitled _An Introduction to Forensic Science_.

"It's not incredibly comprehensive." Sherlock apologized. "I didn't want to overstretch her at first. There's an excellent table on the physical qualities of ageing corpses, though, which looks easy to memorise."

"Yes, yes I'm sure." John nodded and smiled.

"Initially I thought of Gray's _Anatomy_ but I reasoned you probably had that."

"No, this is great! Every girl should have one."

"Right. I should go. I was just passing through."

"On your way to Mosque?"

"What? Oh, yes, I suppose so."

oOo

Things changed for all of them on day six. When Sherlock buzzed on the intercom he could hear screaming wails, and John told him "this isn't a good time." As he turned to leave, feeling strangely disappointed, John's voice came back. "Actually, Sherlock, could you come up?"

Outside the flat he could make out three distinct sounds in the general cacophony. High pitched screams which he assumed were probably the Turnip, quiet but desperate arguments from John and some sort of crying hysteria from Mary.

"He'll be fine!" seemed to be the final word from John as the door opened. A smart red pram was pushed at him from which was emitting hiccupping cries.

"Sherlock, could you do me a favour?" John asked.

"Of course." Sherlock responded.

John looked quite terrible. He clearly hadn't shaved in several days, his shirt was incorrectly buttoned, creased, and had a suspicious mark on it. His eyes were red and he looked pale and uncoordinated. Sherlock frowned, concerned.

"Could you take her for a push around the block?"

"What? Me!"

"Yes. Please, Sherlock!" John looked like he might cry. "Just once around the block; you'll be fifteen minutes at the most." He turned the pram so that Sherlock could take the handles. "Please?" he repeated.

Sherlock looked beyond him to Mary who had her back to them but was clearly crying. He decided that he'd prefer to be outside with a crying baby than inside with a crying baby and two crying parents.

"OK. Once round the block."

oOo

Twelve minutes later he called John's mobile. Mary picked up.

"Sherlock? What's wrong? Is she OK? Where are you?"

"We're just downstairs; you can probably see us from your window." He waved as Mary appeared above him with John behind her. "The Turnip's asleep. Should I bring her in? You won't wake her up again, will you?"

"No, please bring her in. Wait..." She was cut off as Sherlock saw John take the phone from her.

"Sherlock, could you go round again? If you're not busy I mean?"

"Of course."

"Maybe a couple more times?"

"Yes, fine."

"Thank you."

oOo

He took her in about forty minutes later because she was looking, in his words, 'a bit suspicious'. Mary lifted her up and took her for a feed.

"Thank you." John said to him again. Sherlock noted that he was looking a bit better. He was clearly still tired, but at least he was clean now and properly dressed.

"No problem. This parenting lark's easy, isn't it?"

John laughed. "Yes, I suppose it is. Thanks again."

"Right, I'd better go. I was just on my way... somewhere else. See you soon."

"Tomorrow, probably," John said under his breath with a smile.

Sure enough, Sherlock turned up at precisely one o'clock the next day.

"I've come to take Turnip for a push," he announced.

The following day they had her ready in her pram for him.


	6. Taking Turnip for a Push

**Pushing Turnip**

Things slowly settled into a routine for the Watson family. Sherlock turned up at 1:00 every day to take Scarlet for a push around the block and John and Mary used that time to tidy, bath and cook. Sherlock would then hand her back over and leave. When John went back to work, these visits continued, and after a few days he started joining Mary afterwards for a cup of tea or a light lunch. When the weekends came around he sometimes forgot to acknowledge John's presence at all until after he'd returned Scarlet.

One day, when Scarlet was about four weeks old, John received a text.

'_Got a case. Will be late for Turnip. SH.'_

John thought for a moment. He missed the excitement and thrill he got from chasing about after Sherlock. While he knew it was fine for him to miss that and while he reasoned that he could miss aspects of his old life without it diminishing his love of his current circumstances, the desire to be doing something with his time away from Scarlet other than listening to people cough was beginning to press on him. But he knew that it wouldn't be fair to either Scarlet or Mary to put himself in dangerous situations. He also knew it would be wrong for him to resent them for drawing him away from that life. Very, very wrong.

He looked at the message again, and sent a response.

'_Need any help? JW'_

He was thoroughly and irrationally disappointed with Sherlock when he got the response.

'_No. Will be there for Turnip at 4:00.'_

He responded quickly.

'_Her name is Scarlet. And she's fine without you.'_

He put the phone down, fully intending to sulk for a couple of hours. His phone beeped again.

'_Will be there for Scarlet at 4:00'_

John pouted. He picked up the sleeping baby from her cot and held her for a while.

"You're mine." He told her. "You're mine and nobody else's"

"Mine too," Said Mary coming out of the kitchen. "Insofar as anyone can possess another person."

"Oh, well, yeah obviously…" John muttered feeling slightly embarrassed. Mary smiled at him and went into the bedroom. John looked back to Scarlet.

"Well, you're not _his_ anyway." He whispered to her.

oOo

At four o'clock precisely there was a knock at the door. Scarlet was already in her pram, bundled in clothing and blankets. John pushed her into the hallway and shut the door behind them. He was wearing his coat and shoes.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked suspiciously.

"I thought I'd come with you today."

"We don't need you."

"I know, but I want to come. I thought we could take her to the park."

"Why would she want to go to the park?"

"Why would she want to be pushed endlessly round the block?" John smiled in challenge.

Sherlock sighed. "Fine. Come on then." He went to take the pram from John. John held on to it firmly and pushed Scarlet towards the lift. Sherlock didn't say anything but followed with his hands in his pockets.

The walked towards the park. When they were just outside it, Sherlock stopped and turned to John.

"This really isn't working for me at all."

"What isn't?"

"This! All of this!" he gestured at the world in general. "This isn't right! This is all wrong!"

"What on Earth are you talking about?" John demanded.

Sherlock looked at him but didn't seem to know how to respond. John took pity on him.

"Do you want to push?" he asked.

"Yes."

John allowed him to take the pram and they continued walking in silence for a while. Then Sherlock sighed loudly.

"What is it?" John asked.

"Oh, nothing."

"No, tell me what's wrong now."

Sherlock looked at the sky for a while, then he stared at the ground for a while longer. Finally, he looked at John. "I can't talk to her with you about. It feels silly."

John couldn't help but grin. "Why not? What do you talk to her about?"

"Oh, you know. Stuff. Things. Bits and pieces about cases that I find puzzling or interesting."

"Wait a minute!" John stood still. "Is my daughter a replacement for your skull?"

"Don't be silly, John. _You_ were a replacement for my skull. She's my replacement for _you._"

Sherlock continued walking and John had to jog to catch up to him.

"Sherlock, you don't need to replace me! I haven't stopped existing! Really, nothing's changed!"

"No, John. You have new priorities and new responsibilities and I just have to get used to it."

"But isn't it up to me?" John asked. He thought about Sherlock's statement for a second. It didn't sound like his arrogant and self-absorbed friend. "Wait a minute! Who told you that? About my priorities?"

Sherlock looked shiftily at him.

"Mrs Hudson."

"Mrs Hudson?' John grinned. "Oh Lord. What exactly did she say?"

"As I recollect, she said 'He's got new priorities and new responsibilities now, Sherlock, and you just have to get used to it.'"

"When was this?"

"When you left to pick up Mary from the hospital."

"I see. And by 'get used to it', you assumed she meant…"

"Turnip. Obviously."

"Oh!" John grinned. Then he started to giggle.

"What?" Sherlock asked.

John shook his head and his giggle became a proper laugh.

"What?" Sherlock asked again.

The laughter continued. John struggled to get himself under control. He sat down on a bench.

"What?" Sherlock demanded.

"You!" He laughed some more. "Just you, Sherlock."

Sherlock sat down beside him looking cross.

"Oh, Turnip!" John said to the sleeping baby. "What are we going to do with your Uncle Sherlock?"

"When you've quite finished, perhaps you'll honour me with an explanation.

John giggled then laughed again. After a moment, he stopped trying to contain himself. Eventually he calmed down and wiped his eyes.

"Sherlock, I think you may have misinterpreted Mrs Hudson slightly." Sherlock glanced at him without speaking, so John continued. "You don't have to force yourself to spend time with and get used to a baby if you don't want to. Scarlet was my choice; me and Mary together. We wanted her. Yes, obviously she's had an impact in our lives, but I think, and I hope, her presence won't unrecognisably change us. Yes, our behaviour in some situations will change, but we are fundamentally the same people we were."

Sherlock stared at the baby in the pram, thinking about this. John looked at him fondly.

"Sherlock, I know you don't like babies. I knew that when me and Mary first started talking about it and I have to admit it didn't factor highly in our decision making process. I certainly didn't expect or want you to go to all this effort to adapt to her."

They sat in silence for a while.

"Well it's too late now!" Sherlock burst out. "I'm used to her. She has a function in my life! You can't take her away now!"

"I'm not going to take her away," he told him gently. "But she's not going to be a baby who lets you talk at her forever. You might find she wants to do something other than be your sounding board. It might not interest her in the way it interests you."

"Of course it will!" Sherlock told him with certainty. "We've started early. Children are very pliable; especially in their formative years."

"Yeah, I'm looking forward to finding out how pliable you find her when she's twelve." John answered. "You can't make her into who you want her to be, Sherlock. You can't…" here he blushed slightly, "possess a person. It might turn out she wants to be a ballerina, or a librarian, or a travel agent."

"A travel agent?" Sherlock repeated. "You think she should be a travel agent? Do you have no ambition for her?"

"Of course I do! Of course I daydream about her becoming the head of neurosurgery at some major hospital. Maybe she'll have a wing named after her or get a Nobel Prise for something. But, if she wants to be a travel agent and she works hard at it and it makes her happy… well, that's good enough for me."

Sherlock stared at her. She was awake now and just beginning to fuss.

"So how long have we got?" he asked John.

"For what?"

"Until she starts having her own opinions and preferences."

"Oh she's already got preferences," he answered, picking her up out of her pram. "You like things, don't you, Pickle? You like being spoken to, don't you? And you like nice colourful things, and playing boo! And you like tickles!"

"Oh God, you've turned into a moron," muttered Sherlock. He noted, though, that Scarlet's eyes didn't leave John's face as he was talking to her.

"She likes to be held!" John told him and thrust the Scarlet onto Sherlock's lap.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked, fumbling somewhat wildly to make sure she didn't fall.

"Well, you say you're used to her." John told him. "Let's see if she can get used to you."


	7. Catastrophe

**Catastrophe**

* * *

Sherlock looked across the body at Lestrade.

"Obviously you knew he worked in a circus?"

"Er. No."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. His phone rang. It was a withheld number so he diverted to voicemail.

"But you knew he was orinthophobic of course?"

"What?"

"Afraid of ducks."

"Oh."

Sherlock's phone rang again. He diverted again.

"What about the jelly?" Lestrade asked.

"The jelly is irrelevant." Sherlock snapped. His phone rang again. He gave an exasperated sigh and diverted.

"Sherlock Holmes... Yes, he's a friend of mine." Sherlock stood up, his face suddenly blank. "I'll be there in twenty minutes." He left the room.

Lestrade stared after him for a moment, then dashed to keep up with him.

"Sherlock! You can't just leave!"

"I have to go."

"Wait! What?" Lestrade grabbed Sherlock by the arm.

"Sherlock? What's happened?"

Sherlock turned to look at him. "Mary Watson has died."

Lestrade stepped backwards and let Sherlock go.

oOo

"He's in there." A petite nurse pointed to a treatment room. "I don't know if..." She faltered and tears sprang to her eyes. It occurred to Sherlock that many of the staff here knew John. They probably knew Mary too. "Please help him." The nurse finished abruptly, before hurrying away..

Sherlock went in. In the treatment room, the only person he saw was Mary, lying still and quiet on a treatment table. She'd been half covered by a blanket but there was still a tube in her mouth and empty syringes littered the table. Sherlock felt his chest tighten as he looked at her. He'd had lunch with her just the day before. He shook the thought away as being irrelevant.

He heard a sound behind him, and he turned around..

"John!" he whispered.

John was sat on the floor with his knees drawn up. He had squeezed himself between a set of drawers and a crash cart. He didn't seem to be crying, but he was shaking, visibly. He appeared to be holding his breath and occasionally taking large gulps of air. He was clearly unaware that Sherlock was there. His eyes, large and dark, were staring at something Sherlock couldn't see.  
Sherlock was shocked. This was John - his John, whom he'd always thought of as 'strong' or 'dependable' or 'calm in a crisis'. He'd always assumed that there was nothing in the world he couldn't cope with.

It occurred to Sherlock that he didn't have much experience of marriage. His own parents had apparently married because they had the right background, the same need to carry on their family lines and they vaguely got on. He'd assumed that this was, in general, the way marriage worked. He hadn't realised until this moment that John had loved Mary completely and he'd done so with everything he had. He felt ashamed that he hadn't noticed this before, and he was deeply in awe of John.

He shook this off, too, as being unhelpful, and forced himself to focus on John's immediate needs.

He squatted down in front of him and put his hand on John's knee.

"John?" he said quietly.

There was no response.

He moved his hand up to John's shoulder and gave him a gentle shake.

"John?" he said again.

John's eyes flickered up to Sherlock's face, and though he didn't speak there was at least a look of recognition.

"John, you have to get up."

John just shook his head..

"What happened?"

John shook his head again. He opened his mouth as if to speak but his face crumpled and tears came.

Sherlock pulled him forwards until John's head was resting on his shoulder. John clung on to handfuls of his coat. He was properly crying now, his breath coming in ragged, heavy bursts. Sherlock was surprised to find his own breathing getting heavy and his vision blurred with tears. He stared at the wall and fought to control himself.

After a moment he disentangled himself from John, and spoke to him firmly.

"John, you have to get up now."

"I can't."

"Where is Scarlet?"

John shook his head again. "I don't know."

Sherlock felt panic grip him. He tried to keep his own voice steady.

"Did you leave her with a neighbour?"

John shook his head. "She came in the ambulance with us." He looked towards Mary and wiped away the tears that came with his hand.

"I'll go and find her. John, let me help you up."

He got to his feet and picked John up. He met no resistance, John seemed happy to be led. Keeping a firm hold under John's arm, Sherlock led him across to one of the family rooms on the ward. He slid a marker across to 'occupied' and pushed John inside.

He sat him down and poured him a cup of water.

"John, I'm just going to get Scarlet," he told him, feeling cross with himself for patronising his strong friend in this way. "I'll be right back.

John didn't respond.

oOo

The nurse at A&E explained that they had asked the postnatal ward to take care of Scarlet and he set off up three floors to find her. Sherlock could hear her plaintive cries from outside the ward and he felt a wave of anger at the injustice of the situation.

The nurse there was kind though, and she apologised profusely for being unable to get Scarlet to take food. He took her into his arms and she instantly started mouthing at his chest.

"She wants breast, poor mite," the nurse said.

Sherlock changed her position so she was propped over his shoulder. He stroked her back with a long thumb and she gradually quieted.

"What do we feed her?" he asked, thrown by the fact that not only did he have no way of feeding her, but he was utterly ignorant about what she could even eat.

The nurse smiled and she led him to a kitchen where he heard and absorbed the information she told him about sterilisation and formula.

"Shall I write it all down for you?" she asked at one point.

"No, I'll remember," he said automatically, even though his head, was swimming at the magnitude of the task in hand. He concentrated and tried to follow her.

Eventually she finished and handed him Scarlet's baby carrier.

"Shall I give you my number, in case you have any questions?" she asked.

Sherlock noted something in her tone that wasn't simply kindness.

"No, we'll manage. Thank you."

oOo

John hadn't moved during the time he'd been away but Sherlock noted with satisfaction that he'd at least finished the water. He was concerned, though, that John avoided looking at Scarlet. His head swam as he realised how far out of his depth he was with all of this. John was the person he turned to for help with emotional matters and right now he couldn't reach John at all. He shook himself mentally, and reminded himself to focus on the immediate and the practical.

"Come on, John; let's go home."

"I can't," John said again, shaking his head. "I just..."

Sherlock looked at him.

"Yes you can. Let me help you up." He gathered John up with his free hand and took him home.

* * *

_Kindly betaed by GoldVermillion87_


	8. Aftermath 1

**Aftermath 1**

John was quiet and still in the cab. He didn't even move to comfort Scarlet when Sherlock dashed into Mothercare to buy feeding equipment for her, and she had started to cry. By the time they got back to John's flat she was in a screaming rage. Sherlock had run out of hands to drag John out of the cab, and he was relieved when John just followed him into the building like a zombie.

He used his own keys to unlock John's door, and as he did so, he suddenly panicked. He had worked out that Mary had been at home when whatever had happened to her had happened, but he hadn't yet worked out what that event was. His quick eyes darted around the flat as he went in, but he couldn't see anything that might cause John distress. He breathed out.

John sat down on the sofa looking shocked. Sherlock unfastened Scarlet from her carrier and handed her to John, who took her mechanically. Sherlock nodded, content that he wasn't going to cause her any harm and went to prepare a bottle of formula.

There was another wail, and Sherlock held his breath, but he soon heard the sounds of John trying to comfort and calm the baby. It was clear when they first met that John was happier as the comforter rather than the comfortee, and Sherlock smiled with relief and got on with the task of providing food.

He wasn't smiling fifteen minutes later. Scarlet was still screaming at a pitch that made his whole back tense. He could hear John crying again and desperately pleading with Scarlet to be quiet. The bloody stupid milk was still far too hot to give to her, and he put the bottle in the freezer and shut the door. He quickly took it out again and wrapped a bag of frozen peas around it. He then filled a large pan with cold water and stuck the peas and the bottle in it.

John wandered in with Scarlet screaming on his shoulder.

"Is it not ready yet?"

"In a minute!" Sherlock snapped. He instantly felt guilty, but John was already walking away. He pulled his hair and stamped his foot in frustration.

Several minutes later Sherlock took the bottle out of the water. He flicked off the top and squirted some onto his wrist. He stared at the milk as it trickled down his arm and wondered what the hell it was supposed to feel like.

"Sherlock? For God's sake just give me the milk!" John yelled from the living room.

Sherlock decided that it was unlikely to burn even the most sensitive skin and he handed it to John.

Scarlet instantly spat out the silicon teat.

"Please!" John begged her.

He tried again, and Scarlet abandoned any hope that there might be something better on offer and accepted the bottle. She began to drink hungrily. Both men breathed out in relief.

Sherlock's phone beeped with a text.

'_Have just heard. Contact me if you need anything. M'_

Sherlock's eyes started pricking and it surprised and upset him. He desperately wanted to go home and play his violin for a few hours so that he could make sense of all of this. He looked at John, who was pale and haggard and clearly couldn't be left alone any time soon. Now that Scarlet was more or less happy, John had started to malfunction again.

Sherlock cleared his throat.

"Right, now Turnip's sorted out, what do you want to eat?"

John looked up at him and frowned.

"You need to eat," Sherlock said. "I'll go and see what you've got." He went back to the kitchen. "I can do you some eggs as long as they're scrambled."

"No, Mary's saving the eggs for…" John's voice trailed off. When he spoke again it was thick and broken. "Scrambled eggs are fine, thank you."

Sherlock took a moment to curse all hens, eggs, and purveyors of egg related products throughout the world. Then he got to work.

A few minutes later he went back into the lounge and put two platefuls of egg and toast on the table. Scarlet appeared to have made short work of her bottle and had fallen asleep, exhausted. John carefully put her down on her playmat and walked woodenly to the table. He stared at the eggs and toast for a long time before sitting down and taking a small bite. He grimaced and swallowed hard.

"Are they not right?" Sherlock asked.

"No it's fine. Thank you." John gave him a quick, lifeless smile. He continued to push his eggs round his plate and took the occasional nibble. A couple of minutes later he went back to the sofa and closed his eyes. He sat very still and took several long, deep, shuddering breaths. A few minutes later, he got up and marched from the room. Sherlock watched him go and decided he wasn't hungry anymore either.

John reappeared half an hour later, and all signs of food had been removed. Scarlet was still asleep on her playmat, and Sherlock was on the sofa making notes in 'Introduction to Forensic Science' with a red pen. John sat down next to him and picked up a mug of steaming tea that was waiting for him.

Sherlock glanced at him.

"John, I've got to go," he said.

A look of panic appeared on John's face.

"I'll come back," Sherlock said. "I just need to go and get provisions. I'll be back within the hour. There's a bottle for Turnip in the fridge so you'll have to warm it a bit. You'll be OK, won't you?"

John nodded and gave him another soulless smile.

"What do you think you could eat? I'll nip into a shop."

John shook his head. "I'm fine, Sherlock. Really."

Dissatisfied with the answer, Sherlock took his leave.

oOo

He felt exhausted as soon as he got into the cab, and it annoyed him. He'd had plenty of sleep the previous night, and his body was accustomed for running on far less for far longer. He had no idea why it should start acting up now.

When he got to Baker Street, he went straight to Mrs Hudson's flat and knocked on her door.

"Oh hello, Sherlock. Do you need something dear?" she asked him, smiling warmly.

"No, I just wanted to tell you..." His voice choked. He cleared his throat and started again. "John's wife… Mary…" He found he was speaking in little more than a whisper. There were stupid tears in his stupid eyes again.

"Sherlock? Is she OK?"

"No," he whispered. He shook his head.

Suddenly he felt awful. Worse than he had ever felt before. His head was throbbing, and his nose suddenly blocked, and he couldn't breathe or stop the stupid tears in his eyes. He covered his face with his hands and turned away, desperately hoping that Mrs Hudson wouldn't notice.

He was glad, though, when he felt her gentle, caring arms round him, and he followed her blindly into her flat and allowed her to push him into an extremely soft armchair.

"Oh, stupid! Stupid!" he shouted.

"No it's not, dear. Crying is normal, not stupid."

He found that he could no longer fight it, and he cried and cried until he finally ran out of emotion. A hot, sweet tea was pushed into his hand, and he sipped at, gratefully. He slowly calmed down and started to feel better.

"Sorry, Mrs Hudson. I don't cry."

"Everybody cries, dear."

He looked up and noticed that she'd done some crying herself.

"Not me," he told her. "Not unless it's professionally necessary." He rubbed his face and found that it was painful and sticky.

"Everybody needs to cry sometimes, Sherlock. You were getting quite used to Mary, weren't you?"

"It's not Mary. It's John. He broken. He's completely broken and I'm not sure that I…" he trailed off as his voice threatened to betray him again.

"Poor John. Poor Scarlet." Mrs Hudson said. She wiped tears away again.

Sherlock looked up at the clock.

"Shit!" he said, then remembered Mrs Hudson was on the list of people he didn't swear in front of. "Sorry. I didn't realise the time. I have to get back there. Thank you, Mrs Hudson, for the tea and for… Well, thank you."

"Let me know if there's anything you need."

He bounded upstairs and caught sight of himself in the mirror. His eyes, nose and lips were red and swollen.

"Not looking so clever now, are you?" he said to his reflection.

He decided it was worth the ten minutes to shower and get calm again before going back to John. He rapidly put a few belongings in his bag, and looked wistfully at his violin before deciding against. Then he ran down the steps and out of the house.


	9. Aftermath 2

**Aftermath 2**

**This is the last completely sad one. I've tried to squeeze some fluff in there though, and there will be more fluff to follow. Thanks for reading this, and thanks again for the reviews!**

**My plan from here is to just show snapshots from Scarlet's life with John and Sherlock adapting to this. If there are any particular ages or scenarios that you'd like to see, please let me know, I'd quite like the challenge of writing on demand.**

**Pip**

* * *

John had been silent for several hours. He'd held, jiggled and soothed Scarlet during that time, but other than that, he hadn't spoken at all. Sherlock was perplexed. He was used to silence. He'd liked silence in general. This silence felt odd. His presence had been requested by John, so he knew he should stay, but other than that he hadn't been given any instruction, and the feeling of being quite unsure of what to do was alien and unpleasant.

Scarlet was being extremely picky about the bottles. She might not yet have the gift of language, but she made it perfectly clear that they disgusted her. She would drink just enough to stave off immediate hunger, but then she would stop and half an hour later she would complain again. John was getting stressed about this, but forcing him to care for Scarlet had worked so well before, so Sherlock didn't intervene. Instead he just made up endless bottles of milk, most of which would be poured away, almost untouched.

Finally, John shook himself back to the present.

"I'd better sort out the bedroom."

"I'll do it." Sherlock replied. He leapt up and headed to John's bedroom, pleased to have something practical to do.

John's bed was unmade. Not simply unmade; the sheets were twisted and soiled, and the duvet and several of the pillows had been thrown to the ground. Sherlock stood still. There was blood on the pillow of what Sherlock decided was her side of the bed, and there were another few drops on the sheet. It looked as though she'd had a mild nosebleed, but nothing more sinister than that. He walked around the bed and found a syringe on the floor by the feet of Scarlet's cot. He was registered as belonging to University College Hospital and had contained lorazepam. He stared at it for a while.

He remembered that he was here to do a job, and working out the cause of Mary's death was not a part of that. He thought that was a shame, as the task at hand was considerably more challenging. He stripped John's bed and flipped the mattress over, and then went to look for clean bedding. He made the bed reasonably efficiently and looked at the pile of soiled bedding on the floor. He considered throwing it all away and wondered whether it would be better for John if he were to obliterate every sign of Mary from the flat. He decided against. Judging by John's current state, simply removing visual references wouldn't stop him thinking of Mary constantly. Sherlock put the sheets into the laundry hamper and then caught himself wondering, in a panicked fashion, "who would do John's laundry now?" He sat down on the bed. So much of this was hopelessly complicated to him.

Noise from the living room broke through his thoughts, and he went back in. John was trying to feed Scarlet again, and she was again refusing.

"Oh for God's sake, just stop it!" John shouted at her. He pushed her from his lap onto the sofa and leapt up.

"I can't do this! I just can't!" he said and he shoved the milk into Sherlock's hands. He stormed from the room, and Sherlock heard the front door slam.

He though about following John to bring him home again. It was cold and John had gone out without a coat. Then Scarlet's wails broke through his consciousness, and he realised that John's immediate needs were right here.

He picked up Scarlet and sat down with her. She seemed unharmed from the shove. She was clearly cross, but no physical damage had occurred. Sherlock was pleased that somewhere deep in John was the instinct not to harm her. He cradled her the way he'd seen John do, and he tried to get the bottle in her mouth. She spat it out and wailed some more. Sherlock wondered if he could squirt some milk into her mouth to get her to understand it was food. The first shot went into her eye and the second just made her choke.

She cried more loudly.

Sherlock found himself getting impatient with her. She needed food, she clearly wanted food, and she was being offered perfectly adequate food, and yet she was refusing to eat. He realised, with a sudden stab of guilt that John had been trying to deal with this alone and for hours.

He tried again, but Scarlet spat the bottle out and turned her head towards his chest to mouth at his shirt again.

She wriggled and squirmed and he struggled to keep her steady in the crook of his arm, so he shifted her and put her onto his lap with her back straight along his legs, and her legs stretching up his torso. He looked down at her. The change in position surprised her so much she stopped crying, briefly, so he tried the bottle again. She took it and drunk, hungrily.

"What, really?" he asked her.

She eyed him with a look that clearly said; "You're an idiot."

He was mildly proud of himself when she finished the bottle. He looked down at her, wriggling and blowing bubbles, quite oblivious to the pain and the stress in the flat. She kicked her feet against his chest, and he kissed the sole of her foot.

"Now look, Turnip," he said. "Your daddy is in a mess. It a big mess and we have to see if we can help him find his way out of it. Both of us do. You and me."

Scarlet hiccupped and a thin stream of milk ran down her cheek. Sherlock mopped it up with a muslin cloth.

"To be honest, Turnip, I'm going to be following your lead, because I'm rubbish at this sort of thing."

She smiled at him and blew some bubbles.

"You got her to eat," John said from the doorway.

Sherlock jumped and blushed, wondering how long he'd been stood there.

"Do you want her back?"

John shook his head, but he didn't look frightened of her anymore.

"No, I'm going to make some toast. Do you want anything?"

"No, I'm fine."

"Sherlock..." John paused and swallowed and blinked back tears. "Sherlock, it's not going to feel this way forever. I do know that, and you need to know that too. It's awful, right now it's awful, but I know it will get better. I don't know how long it will take and that thought scares me a bit, but... it will get better. Don't worry."

Sherlock nodded at him. Once more he felt in awe of John and his innate and brilliant understanding of the way people work and his courage to look at the immediate roadblocks without faltering or backing down. He'd run away for a whole fifteen minutes and he'd come back again. Sherlock had been fighting the impulse to run out the door for hours and to classify this as 'not his problem'.

"Thank you." John said to him. "Thank you for all your help today."

Sherlock nodded again and John went into the kitchen. He felt strangely inadequate. He'd made some bottles up and changed the bedclothes. That was it.

"Don't put yourself down!" John called. "You have helped enormously."

oOo

In the morning, Molly called John to let him know that she'd completed the autopsy. He didn't ask Sherlock to come with him, but he was glad that he did so anyway. He knew Sherlock was fretful, but he didn't have the energy to calm him. He'd barely slept the night before, but had spent the hours watching Scarlet through the bars of her cot. The bed felt empty and huge, and he ended up perched at the edge of it, where all he could see was Scarlet. He'd fallen asleep like that, but had woken soon after. He had dreamt of Afghanistan for the first time in years. He didn't remember shouting, and Scarlet had stayed asleep, but Sherlock appeared in the doorway. He hadn't said anything, and John just shook his head and he went away.

He glanced across the cab at Sherlock who was sitting with his hand in Scarlet's carrier and pulling faces at her. John turned away and wept again. He didn't move until they reached the hospital.

Molly was calm and very professional. Sherlock was surprised. Usually if he was in the room she was reduced to a gibbering wreck. Added to this, was the fact that she'd just performed an autopsy on a friend, and she must have juggled her waiting list to arrange it so quickly. He resolved to be nicer to her in future. Properly nicer, and not just the kind he was when he needed something from her.

"There was a tumour," she told them. "It was between her cerebellum and her optical lobe, seven centimetres in length. It caused a lesion in the optical lobe, and that was what caused her seizure."

John nodded. For him it was the last piece of the puzzle, and he didn't need to hear anything more. He had woken to Mary thrashing on the bed beside him. She'd never had a seizure before, and he had nothing in the flat to stop it. The paramedics had arrived promptly and administered drugs but nothing had helped. She'd arrived at hospital twenty-one minutes after John's initial call. An hour later the strain had been too much for her heart, and she had died. Resuscitation had been unsuccessful. John took a deep breath.

"There was nothing you could have done." Molly told him.

He nodded, and thought back to all the times in the last year when Mary had complained of being dizzy or seeing spots, or headaches. There hadn't been many occasions and they were usually cured if she sat down and drank some water. He had assumed that they were pregnancy related. He would have assumed the same with any other person. He certainly wouldn't have sent a patient along for a brain scan with such symptoms.

This was one of those hideous, symptomless oddities about the human body.

"I brought in her full file." Molly said. "I wasn't sure if you'd want to double check anything."

John shook his head. "No, that's fine, Molly. Thank you." He wiped tears away.

"Would you like to see her?"

"Yes."

"Do you want me to come with you?" Sherlock asked.

"No. Wait here with Scarlet."

Mary was lying on a table with a blanket covering her. She looked peaceful. There was no sign of Molly's work at all. John stroked her cheek gently with his finger and traced the line of her neck and along her shoulder.

"Goodbye," he whispered, smiling ever so slightly at her, but with tears flowing freely. "Goodbye, my love. Don't worry about Scarlet; I'll take care of her. Goodbye for now."


	10. Visiting Uncle Sherlock

**Visiting Uncle Sherlock**

_Nine and a half months._

John let himself into 221b Baker Street. He left the pram in the hallway downstairs and carried Scarlet and her large changing bag upstairs.

"Sherlock? Are you in?" he called from the staircase.

"Come in, John!" came the reply.

John went in and sat down on the vacant sofa. He put Scarlet and the Bag of Doom down on the floor and sat back exhausted. Scarlet instantly crawled off, and John became aware that he had an audience.

"Oh, hello Mycroft," he said, and he sat up straighter. "I'm sorry, am I interrupting something?"

"No, you're not interrupting anything at all," Sherlock said.

John looked at Mycroft.

"There's no trouble? Nothing you need?"

"Does a man have to need something to pay a visit to his brother?"

"It sort of depends on the brothers."

Sherlock sniggered and Mycroft raised his eyebrows.

"I told you when we first met that I worry about... good grief! What has she done to my shoe?"

"Oh sorry, Mycroft!" John said. "She does that sometimes." He started rummaging through the bag. "I've got some wipes in here somewhere."

"Don't worry," Mycroft replied in a painfully calm voice. He produced a large, monogrammed handkerchief from his pocket, and with a look of extreme distaste, he wiped the vomit from his shoe.

Sherlock grinned at Scarlet. "It's OK, Turnip. You're just actualising what we all dream of doing."

Mycroft glowered at him.

Scarlet abandoned Mycroft's footwear as a source of fun, and she manoeuvred around to Sherlock and pulled herself up using his legs as a prop. Having reached a standing position she looked up at him and let go, giving him a 'look! No hands!' expression of triumph.

"She's standing!" Sherlock said. He beamed at John. "Why didn't you tell me she could stand now? How long has she been doing that?"

"Er, I'm not sure, that's the first time I've seen it." John said. He smiled and sat back on the chair, looking quite exhausted.

Sherlock picked Scarlet up and sat her on his knee.

"See! I always knew you were clever!" he said. She smiled at him. "There's a tooth! No, two teeth too! John, you really are remiss with your updates."

"I didn't know they were through yet. I'm relieved though."

He stretched his legs out and closed his eyes.

"Ah," said Mycroft. "That explains the fatigue."

"What fatigue?" John asked through a yawn.

"Of course she's teething," Sherlock told Mycroft. "She shows all the classic signs; red cheeks, copious dribbling and I bet her nappies are foul. Really, Mycroft, I'm amazed that you missed it."

"Well I haven't had much cause to study to the subject. And I'll certainly leave all nappy examinations to you."

"Well, your loss." He glanced at John to see whether he'd be called out on the nappy changing front, but John remained quite still. "Of course Turnip isn't a classic example for study; she's well ahead of where other babies her age would be. She's meeting all her goalposts days, if not _weeks,_ ahead of schedule. I imagine we'll have her first words this side of..."

They were interrupted by a low, rumbling snore from the sofa. The brothers regarded John for a few moments.

"It's odd," Mycroft said, "but I'm overcome with an urge to draw on him."

"Mm," Sherlock replied. "In my experience it's best to resist that impulse."

"Good tip. Thank you." He turned to watch Sherlock who was bouncing a laughing Scarlet on his knee. He watched him for a moment and smiled. "You know, Sherlock, domesticity suits you. Perhaps you should consider settling down and starting a family."

"Don't be ridiculous, Mycroft," Sherlock said, without looking away from the baby. "I've already got one."

"Ah," Mycroft said. "Quite."

Mycroft nodded and stood up, and he let himself out, Sherlock put Scarlet down and wandered over to the John. He hefted his legs onto the sofa and shoved a pillow under his head.

"'s alright, Scar... 'm gettin' up," John mumbled.

Sherlock didn't reply, but he dropped a blanket over John and watched as John rolled over and went back to sleep. Sherlock nodded, satisfied. He picked up Scarlet and took her downstairs where he was sure Mrs Hudson would be ready to coo and properly appreciate the child's newly found standing up skills.

oOo

John woke up in semi darkness and instantly panicked. It took him a moment to recognise his surroundings and to realise that he could hear Sherlock talking to someone in the kitchen, and from the sentence structure and choice of vocabulary, he was talking to a baby.

He stood up and went through to join them. Sherlock was sitting at the kitchen table with Scarlet on his knee and a pipette in his hand.

"Now, we drop in the blood sample..." he said, and he let a drop fall from the pipette, "and the liquid goes brown! Look, Turnip! Brown!"

Turnip obligingly gurgled and applauded.

"Where did you get the blood sample?" John asked.

"Don't worry, it's mine!" Sherlock responded and he held up his hand to show a sticking plaster on his finger.

"How long have I been asleep?"

Sherlock checked his watch. "Nearly two hours."

"Really?" he said. "God, Scarlet must be starving!"

"She was until I fed her."

"You fed her?"

"Yes. There was a pot labelled 'pasta bake' in that enormous bag of yours. It looked like pink cat sick."

John frowned.

"Why would cat sick be pink?"

Sherlock thought about this.

"Maybe it's a very ill cat?" He shrugged. "Anyhow I assumed it was fit for human consumption and Turnip enjoyed it."

"Good." John took her from Sherlock, kissed her, and then he put her down on the floor. "Well, I'm sorry I came to visit and just slept, but I'd better take her home and put her to bed."

"Don't go yet!" Sherlock stood up and went to fill the kettle. "I've just ordered us food from Yeun's."

John blinked for a moment, and then he walked across the kitchen and embraced a surprised Sherlock in a massive bear hug.

"John," Sherlock said. "What are you doing?"

"I'm giving you a hug," John replied. "A big, brotherly, and purely platonic hug."

"I see." Sherlock glanced around the kitchen. "Why?"

"Because it's been a while since someone let me sleep for two hours and then provided me with a meal."

"Right." Sherlock patted him on the shoulder. "Right."

John let go.

"I'll make the tea. You go and teach my daughter some more chemistry. Or at least stop her throwing herself down the stairs."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, and watched John for a moment. Then he went into the hallway to where Scarlet was indeed looking at the staircase with an expression that suggested that she really wanted to get to know about _these_. He gathered her up, and, on hearing the doorbell, he carried her downstairs to get the food.

Over their food, Sherlock asked John the obvious question.

"John," he said. "Why don't you move back in here?"

John put his cutlery down and looked at Sherlock.

"I have thought about it, Sherlock, and I really appreciate the offer, but I don't think it's the right thing to do."

"Why not? There's loads of space and we could get some stair-gates."

"Yes but... Well look..." He wondered how to word his thoughts without offending his friend. "I just think that Scarlet needs to be in a stable environment while she's growing up." Sherlock raised his eyebrows, and John suspected he hadn't succeeded in not causing offence. He tried again. "The thing is, I'm not sure that it's in her best interests to live in a place where, to use a random example, she might open the fridge to get some juice and find a severed head."

"Oh, come on! That only happened once!"

"Or she might bring a friend home from school and find you shooting holes in the wall."

"I can stop doing that. And I can stop doing the other stuff too."

"No, you can't," John said. He smiled at Sherlock. "I know you would try but one of two things would happen; you'd either get bored again and forget, or the trying would destroy you. I think it's likely to be the latter and I don't want to be responsible for that."

Sherlock pulled a face.

John smiled. "As far as I'm concerned, this is by far the best arrangement. Scarlet has a nice calm house to grow up in, and an insane uncle to visit in his madhouse. You've got a place where you can play the violin at three in the morning, or recreate crimes, or entertain the police or the criminal classes as is your preference at that moment, and you can still see Scarlet pretty much whenever you want."

Sherlock digested this.

"Fine, well at least stay here tonight. Scarlet's already asleep, and I can watch her tonight and you get a decent night's sleep in your old bed."

John nodded.

"All right. Thank you, Sherlock."

He smiled, and the two of them settled back down to their meal.


	11. Words

**Talk in the reviews of Scarlet having a complicated first work got me thinking about this. **

* * *

Words**  
**

_Eleven and a half months._

Sherlock was sitting in John's kitchen with Scarlet in front of him in her high chair. He set his face in what he believed was a suitably stern expression. He held a chocolate button in front of her.

"Now, Turnip, I want you to concentrate properly. Let's try again. Say 'corpse'. Come on now, 'corpse'. It's a nice easy one and then you can have the chocolate. 'Corpse', 'corpse'."

Scarlet looked at the chocolate and reached up to take it.

"No," he told her, "not until you say 'corpse'.

She waved some more.

"OK, just this one though."

He gave her the chocolate button, which she ate with a joyful squeak.

"Was the 'ps' sound too tricky you?" he asked. "OK, let's try something simpler. How about 'Rigour Mortis'? No, maybe Latin's a bit unfair. How about 'morbidity'? Can you say 'morbidity'? Mor-bid-it-y. Come on, Turnip, do it for the chocolate."

He gave her another button and held one more in front of her.

John come through the front door, and Sherlock dropped his voice down to a whisper.

"Come on, Turnip! Do it for me! Mor-bid-it-y."

"Can you say 'mentally unhinged', Scarlet?" John asked, as he walked past them to put the kettle on.

He turned round and surveyed the scene. Sherlock was sitting back now looking quite smug, and Scarlet was covered in chocolate.

"She did talk." Sherlock said.

"OK then, what did she say?"

"She said 'wasabi'."

John snorted.

"Really? Her first word was a Japanese condiment. How strange, I wasn't aware she'd ever heard of it. In what context did she use it?"

"I said; 'Do you need to sneeze?' and she said; 'wasabi'. She was clearly connecting the strength of her sneeze to the heat. Of the wasabi."

"Right," John nodded and smiled to himself. "So how much chocolate did you give her?"

"None! I'm not going to reward her for no actual words."

"Right. So what's round her face is...?"

"She's had maybe, two."

"You've given her three packets of chocolate buttons, haven't you?" There was a certain amount of accusation in John's tone.

"Don't be ridiculous!"

John looked at him. "There's an empty packet under the table, one on the table and one in your hand. It's half an hour before bedtime and you've pumped my ten-month-old child full of chocolate."

Sherlock had the grace to look slightly ashamed.

"Sherlock!"

"Shock!" echoed Scarlet.

Both men stared at her.

"Say that again," Sherlock said, with an intense look on his face.

John rolled his eyes. He bent down to Scarlet's eye level.

"Scarlet, look, it's Sherlock."

"Shock!" she said, kicking and waving a bit.

"Sher-lock." John articulated slowly for her.

"Sher-ock." she said

"Lock." John repeated

"yock." she compromised.

"Sherlock," John said.

"Sher...yock." Scarlet said. Then she giggled.

"There you go," John said. He patted Sherlock on the shoulder and went back to the kettle.

Sherlock been completely still during this exchange, and he rocked slightly under the force of John's pat. Suddenly he leapt up and walked quickly into the living room.

"Are you OK?" John called after him.

"Yes, fine!" Sherlock replied, though his voice sounded oddly strained.

John watched as he paced the front room occasionally scratching the back of his head.

"Would you like a cup of tea?" John asked him.

"Yeah, fine. Fine."

John wondered whether he'd ever tell Sherlock that he observed him wipe his eyes slightly. Probably not, he thought. Sherlock would either disbelieve him or would just deny it anyway.

John shook his head and went to make the tea.

"You have to stay to put her to sleep anyway," He called. "I'm not doing it after three packets of chocolate buttons!


	12. Babysitting

**I was having a really hideous day yesterday, and by the time I went to bed I'd been properly cheered up by the lovely, lovely reviews. I know this story is a whole heap of fluffy nonsense but it's so nice to know that other people think it's well written and are enjoying it too.**

**Pip xxx**

* * *

Babysitting

_Two years and Nine Months._

"_That's_ my train, its engine is sooooo glossy," Sherlock said.

Scarlet was sitting next to him on the sofa, and she smiled up at him. Her blue eyes shone, and her blonde hair shone, and Sherlock thought that anyone in the world would do anything for this perfect child.

"Again!" she demanded.

Sherlock sighed.

"No, Turnip, we said one book then bedtime."

"'Tis one book." she pointed out.

"Yes, but we've read it nineteen times." There was an edge to his voice that suggested that reading a six-page book nineteen times in a row might have chipped away at his patience a little bit.

Scarlet looked at him, and evaluated his strength of feeling.

"I read it to you," she compromised.

"No!" Sherlock groaned. "I don't want you to! I've read it – I know what it says, I know how it ends! The final twist, though well structured, was quite predictable even at first, and after nineteen readings, I have to admit that it just doesn't hold the same element of surprise for me any more! Besides which, you can't read!"

Scarlet looked up at him. Her forehead wrinkled into a frown, her eyes dropped down to the book in her hands, and her bottom lip was thrust out. There were tears in her giant eyes and the long, slow wail started to build up.

"No! Don't cry!" Sherlock begged. "I'm sorry, Scarlet! Of course I want you to read it to me. Please don't cry! Please? I really want you to read your book to me!" He took her onto his lap and cuddled her.

She stopped crying but still looked quite hurt.

"OK, Scarlet, let's make a deal," Sherlock said. He chose not to remember the 'just once more' deal that he made with her an hour ago. "You read it to me, _just one time_ and then you have to promise that you'll go to bed."

"OK."

"Promise?"

"Yes."

"OK."

His phone beeped. There was a text from John.

'_Is she asleep?'_

Sherlock gave her a sidelong glance before texting back.

'_Yes.'_

Summoning every ounce of patience he had left, he sat through her rendition of _That's Not My Train._

"That's my train! Its... its... its... this bit is shiny." She finished and looked up at him.

"Yes, it's very shiny," he agreed.

"And red."

"Yes, red too."

"Look, Sherlock! There's the mouse!"

"Yes, I can see the mouse. Right, bedtime."

"No! I don't want to go to bed!"

"Scarlet, you promised!"

He already knew it was futile.

"NoooooooOOOooo!" She told him.

He resorted to logic. "The thing is, Daddy said bedtime was 7:30, and it's nearly 9:00 now. If you don't go to bed, he won't let me babysit again and he'll have to stay home, and when he stays home too much he gets grumpy and sarcastic." He looked her in the eye. "So it's in everybody's best interest that you go to bed now.

She looked at him. "OK," she said.

"Really?" Sherlock asked. "I mean, yes, bedtime. Let's go to bed."

He followed her down the hallway to her room, and watched as she climbed into her toddler-bed.

"I want some milk," she said.

"Milk? OK, I can get you some milk." He went to get the milk, and felt slightly proud when he remembered to put it in a sippy cup so she didn't spill it all over her bed.

"There you go!" he said, when he'd returned to her. "Milk. When you've finished it, put the cup here." He patted her bedside drawers.

She nodded at him.

"OK then. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Sherlock."

He went back into the lounge to survey the carnage left after an afternoon of inside play. He decided that tidying up didn't constitute part of his baby-sitting duties so he sat down and flicked the TV on.

"Sherlock!" a small voice came from down the hallway.

He ignored it.

"SHERLOCK!"

He ignored it again. He was sure he'd read somewhere that you were supposed to let them settle themselves.

"Sherloooooock!" That one had an edge of panic to it. The subsequent wail was at exactly the right pitch to enter his skull through his hair. He found he was halfway down the hallway before he'd made the decision to go to her.

"What is it?" he asked.

"I've finished," she said in a perfectly calm voice. She held up the sippy cup by way of explanation.

"I thought you were going to put it just there," he said, and point.

"No! It goes in the kitchen." Her tone suggested that he was utterly stupid for not knowing this basic fact.

"OK. I'll take it away," he said. "Will you go to sleep now?"

She nodded. She stuck her left thumb in her mouth, and her right hand gathered a handful of her hair, and she snuggled into her sleeping position.

Sherlock felt relief wash over him.

"All right. Good girl." He smiled at her fondly. "Goodnight."

He put her cup in the kitchen and sat down again. He started flicking through the channels trying to find something bearable to watch. After a few minutes, he heard the noise of little footsteps coming towards him. He turned to find Scarlet in the doorway.

"I need a tuddle," she told him.

"A cuddle?"

"Yes."

He frowned at her. "Why?"

She leant against the doorframe and stood on one foot.

"I need a tuddle."

Sherlock sighed. He stood up, walked over to the child, picked her up and gave her a cuddle.

"OK?" he asked. "Will you go to bed now?"

"Carry me."

Sherlock bit his tongue, but he refrained from shouting, and he carried her back to her bed. He put her in it.

"You sleep here too?" Scarlet asked him.

"No, I'm going to go home when your dad gets back."

"No. You sleep in my bed?"

"No, Scarlet, I can't. I literally can't! Your bed is four foot six long, and I'm six foot and a half inch. Do the maths! It's just not possible!"

The bottom lip came out again and trembled. The eyes filled with tears once more.

"No! Please don't cry! OK, I'll try." He tried to squeeze himself next to her, sending a number of soft toys to the floor as he did so. He tried to cuddle her and stop her crying, but it was quite futile.

"Wait a minute," he said. "I've got an idea."

He got up again. He picked up Scarlet in one arm, and her blankie and a threadbare teddy with a pink bow in the other arm, and he carried her out of the room.

"We sleep in Daddy's bed?" she asked, perfectly calm again.

"Yes. That's exactly what we're going to do." He flicked the light on in John's bedroom and deposited the small girl and her sleeping equipment in the bed, tucking her in under John's duvet. He briefly worried but then decided he didn't care if she got a bit too warm. By the time this would be an issue, John would be home and it wouldn't be his problem. He turned on a bedside lamp and switched off the light, and then he lay down on top of the bedclothes, next to her.

She turned over and looked at him with a smile showing behind her thumb.

"Night, night, Sherlock."

"Goodnight."

He didn't say anything more, just waited next to her, wondering if he could be bothered to read the novel John had on his bedtime table. He read the blurb on the back and decided against. Instead he listened to Scarlet's breathing slowing down. When he was convinced she was asleep, he edged himself off the bed.

"Where are you going?" Scarlet instantly asked.

Sherlock gritted his teeth and counted to three.

"Nowhere," he said as calmly as he could. "I am staying right here. In this exact spot. Forever." He gave her a smile.

She nodded and closed her eyes again.

When John came in several hours later, slightly drunk and blissfully relaxed, he was a bit surprised to find the TV playing to itself and the lounge looking like a jumble sale after the first wave of grannies had been through it. He smiled though, got himself a pint of water and wandered through to find Scarlet and Sherlock curled up together, both sound asleep on his bed. He smiled at them for a few moments.

"Right then," he muttered to himself. "I guess babysitting went well."

He left to make the bed up on the sofa.


	13. Boyfriend?

**This one came from a prompt from MoreThingsInHeavenAndEarth in the reviews of the last one. I'm not going to say what it was in case you don't want it spoiled, but you can see it in the reviews. This is my second attempt at this as the one I wrote yesterday was far too angsty and just didn't feel right. I think this works a bit better. I like John in this one anyhow.**

**Pip xxx**

* * *

Boyfriend

_Sixteen._

"John? John!"

John looked up from the huge stack of term papers he was marking, and wondered what Sherlock could possibly want. He'd explained that he wasn't able to help on the case _right now_ but had told him he'd be with him as soon as he'd finished marking. Sherlock had been getting quite good at accepting these provisos in recent years, so seeing him burst into the room in an agitated state was something of a surprise. Not a huge surprise though.

"What do you want, Sherlock?" John looked up at him and took off his reading glasses off.

Sherlock just stood in the front room, staring at him. He appeared to be at a loss for words, which was unusual enough to make John mildly concerned.

"Sherlock? What is it? What's wrong?"

Sherlock sat down on the sofa and steadied himself.

"John, I'm not completely sure how to tell you this." Sherlock paused.

John waited patiently.

Sherlock met his eye and took a deep breath.

"It's about Scarlet," he said.

"What about her?"

Sherlock took another deep breath.

"I just saw her at the National Gallery."

John nodded and frowned.

"Yes, she has a fieldtrip there today."

"She wasn't on her own." Sherlock said.

"Well I wouldn't imagine she was. It's quite a big class. Sherlock, are you OK? Have you been hit on the head or something?"

"No! I mean she was with a boy!" He paused and waited for John to absorb this. "They were _holding hands_."

"Well, it was probably Darren." John said. He turned back to his marking and put his glasses back on.

Sherlock gaped.

"You knew? You knew about this and you didn't tell me?" He looked away. "You always were rubbish at keeping me updated." He sniffed.

John smiled.

"Sherlock, I didn't tell you because I had a sneaking suspicion that you might overreact. I can't think why. Also, there is the tiny point that it's really none of your business."

Sherlock stared at him.

"Fine," he snapped.

John smiled to himself and started on the next paper. He could feel Sherlock's stare boring into him, but he didn't look up.

"Have you met him?" Sherlock asked.

"Yeah, he came in once to wait for Scarlet before a date. He seems nice."

"Nice? Nice! He seems utterly abhorrent!"

John looked at him again.

"Fine, you tell me what you worked out about him then."

"He's the youngest child in his family. Youngest children always have problems."

"You're a youngest child and you don't … oh, wait. OK then, carry on."

Sherlock glared.

"He's from a single parent family."

"So's Scarlet."

"No she's not! She's got you and she's got me!"

John raised his eyebrows at him. "What else?"

"He has name-tags in his clothes."

"So? I had name-tags in my clothes until I was in my mid thirties."

"You were in the army, it doesn't count." Sherlock sat back and folded his arms. "With him it's because his mother is overprotective."

"Sherlock, some parents can be a bit protective sometimes. You have to fight your instincts a bit to not try and shield your child from anything that might hurt them. In a similar way I find that way that step-parents, or grandparents, or random friends of the family can also be a bit overprotective. It's fine. It doesn't make someone into an awful person."

Sherlock pouted and sulked. John turned back to his papers again.

"They want to have sex," Sherlock said.

John jumped and made a long red mark through one of the papers.

"Well, he does anyhow," Sherlock continued. "She's not sure but is curious and I think…"

"Sherlock!" John shouted. Sherlock stopped talking, and John rubbed his face before he continued. "OK, Sherlock, it is… it is… _completely inappropriate_ for someone to discuss their child's sex life with their friends. Completely and utterly inappropriate."

"But it's _Scarlet_," Sherlock said. "She's a child! She shouldn't have a sex-life to talk about yet!"

"She's sixteen! Yes I'd rather she waited until she was maybe 30 or so, and I'd definitely rather she was sure, but she's sixteen. It's not exactly unusual for sixteen year olds to be thinking and feeling the way she and Darren are."

John sat back and stared out the window. Sherlock noted that he suddenly looked old and tired. He began to understand why parents preferred not to discus their children's sex lives, and he felt a touch guilty.

"Do you want me to talk to her about it?" He asked.

"No! God no! No, no no, Sherlock! No. Just… no." He looked up at Sherlock and met his eye. "Sherlock, if you do, she will never forgive you." He wasn't sure this had reached Sherlock. "And neither would I." he added.

"Then what do we do?"

"We wait. We wait quietly and patiently, and don't push her or pry, or invade her privacy and if we're really, really lucky, she'll talk to us when she's ready. Though by 'us' I really mean 'me'."

"What if that doesn't work? What if she gets hurt?" Sherlock asked. He looked genuinely concerned.

John sighed. "If that doesn't work, I don't think anything else will. She might get hurt, I hope she doesn't, but I can't stop things happening to her. And if she does get hurt, I want her to be able to come and talk to me. That's not going to happen if we force her or embarrass her."

Sherlock sighed too. "I don't like it."

John smiled at him.

"No. Well, it is what it is, Sherlock. It's just a part of parenthood. It's what you have to go through to make up for the smiles and the tuddles."

"I wish she was that age again."

John frowned. "Really?"

"Wouldn't you?"

John thought for a while.

"I miss it. But I think she's turned out really well. I like the young woman she's turning into and I wouldn't give that person up. It's not all plain sailing all the time, but she's… well, she's amazing."

"Yes she is." Sherlock sat back. He still didn't look happy, but he did at least look calm and accepting.

John smiled and went back to his marking. "Besides which, maybe one day there will be grandchildren…"


	14. Chicken Pox

Chickenpox

_Three years, six months_

The sunlight streamed through John's window and woke him up. He frowned at the brightness in the room checked the clock. 07:18. On a good day, Scarlet would usually wake up at 6:30 at the latest, and she would be jumping on his bed seconds later, demanding her breakfast. He got up and stuck his head around her bedroom door. She was a little bundle, curled up under the duvet, breathing with a slight snore. John smiled to himself. The cold that had been threatening must have come on.

He decided to leave her where she was and take advantage of a lazy and quiet morning. He wandered into the kitchen to make tea and toast.

He was happily watching the news when she appeared looking bleary eyed and woofly.

"Good morning," he said, looking up at her. "Oh."

She wandered all the way in and scrambled up onto the sofa.

"I want milk," she said.

She flopped over and put her head on a cushion.

"You feeling alright, Poppet?" John smiled.

"Yep." She sounded tired and scratched at her tummy.

He took his phone out of his pocket, took a quick picture of her, and he texted it to Sherlock.

He flicked the TV over to a cartoon before going to get her some breakfast.

A few seconds later Sherlock called him.

"What the hell have you done to her?"

"I haven't done anything to her! It's just Chicken Pox."

"_Chicken Pox_?"

"Yes, she'll be itchy and unwell for a few days, and then she'll be fine."

"I'm coming over," Sherlock said.

John rolled his eyes. "Fine. Stop off at a chemist then and get me some bits and pieces."

Sherlock appeared half an hour later. He mostly ignored John and focused on entertaining Scarlet. John was pleased he'd come though. Scarlet was miserable and needed a distraction from the itching. They tried bathing her in oatmeal, dowsed her with calamine lotion and finally dosed her with antihistamines before she'd settled into something resembling a good temper. She and Sherlock spent some time on the lounge floor colouring pictures (both hearts, his anatomically correct, and hers big and red with extra glitter). Eventually she flopped over and went to sleep right there on the floor. John gently picked her up and carried her to bed. When he came back, Sherlock was sprawled on the sofa looking exhausted.

"Thanks for coming," John said. "And for bringing supplies. I didn't much fancy taking her out to the chemist."

"It's fine."

"What are you doing?"

"Nothing. What do you mean?"

"You're scratching."

"Am I?" Sherlock stopped immediately. "Must be sympathetic itchiness."

"Yes, that must be it."

Quite without warning, John leant over and pulled Sherlock's shirt up. There were a number of bright red blisters covering Sherlock's sides and chest.

"For goodness sake, Sherlock! Why didn't you tell me you'd never had chicken pox?"

Sherlock glowered at him. "Don't be ridiculous! Only children get Chicken Pox."

John snorted. "That's not actually true, though it's more common because children catch it from each other. You must have missed out when you were young and picked it up wherever Scarlet did."

"I didn't play with many children when I was young." Sherlock grumped.

"Well, you've got it now," John said. "You'll have to lay low for a few days. And stop scratching."

"I'm not!"

"Just stop it."

oOo

Sherlock ended up staying for a week with John and Scarlet. It made more sense for him to wear John's looser clothing while he was still ill, and neither of them fancied making Mrs Hudson run around after him for a week. It went without question that Sherlock would be making demands if he went home.

Mostly this went well. Though Scarlet was fairly miserable, Sherlock seemed to have got away with a very mild case, and he was able to both commiserate and cheer her up. The two of them named themselves 'team pox' and kept each other entertained with various activities. John was relegated to going out for ice-cream, dosing them with Paracetamol and antihistamines, making tea and generally telling one or the other of them (usually Sherlock) to stop scratching.

After seven days, it was wearing a bit thin. After Scarlet had been dispatched to bed, John came and sat next to Sherlock on the sofa. He looked at the general mess in the flat but decided he was too tired to do anything about it right then. Sherlock was flicking through the TV channels looking for something to watch.

John watched him for a moment.

Sherlock noticed him.

"Is there any tea?" he asked.

"Mm. Listen, Sherlock. I was wondering when you might be thinking of going home."

Sherlock put the remote control down and stared at the carpet.

"I can't go yet!" he whined. "Look at me!"

John calmly shook his head.

"You're not contagious any more. You're not even itchy or ill any more either. It just looks a bit odd."

"It looks awful!" Sherlock picked at the aran jumper he was wearing. "I'm not used to looking so... awful."

John smiled. "Well, be that as it may, you can't stay here until you're your back to your usual stunning self. That might take forever!"

Sherlock pouted. He thought for a while and sighed.

"I don't want to go," he finally said.

"Well, I'd quite like my bed back sometime soon."

"You could always..."

"I'm not sharing with you! Stop suggesting it!"

"I don't see why not," Sherlock said, with a sniff.

John sighed.

"You like the Baker Street flat, Sherlock."

"So why don't you and Turnip move in with me?"

"Oh, not this again." John closed his eyes and rubbed his face. "You know why not. I've explained why not."

"No, I know all the excuses that you keep coming up with, but they're all rubbish. Every one of them. You must see how much easier it would be to have me and Mrs Hudson around to help with Scarlet."

"Actually I think I'm doing quite a good job on my own!" John snapped.

"Of course you are! I didn't say it would be _better_, I said it would be _easier_."

John was quiet for a moment.

"I just don't think it's a good idea. What about you? You might want to settle down sometime! You might find someone who might not want to share you with an old man and his daughter!"

Sherlock guffawed. "Well that's your most ridiculous excuse to date! Seriously, John, this is _me_we're talking about. Can you really see that happening? You don't think that there might have been some sign of my life going in that direction at any point in the past thirty years? I've told you a million times I'm just not interested in all of that. Besides, I don't need children of my own, I've got Scarlet."

John stiffened.

"Sherlock," he said quietly. "She's not your child."

"I know! But she's as good as!"

"No she's not!" John didn't know why he was sounding or feeling so angry, and he took a deep breath.

"Fine!" Sherlock shouted. "Fine! I'll pack up and go now! I'll leave you two alone and won't take up your time again!" He got up and stormed into John's bedroom. "Where have you hidden my clothes?" he called.

John followed him. "They're not hidden, they're on the chair, in plain sight."

Sherlock looked at them. "Didn't notice," he muttered.

"Sherlock, I don't want you to go right now. I certainly don't want you to disappear out of my life, and certainly not Scarlet's life, forever. I just want my own space."

"It's fine!" Sherlock snapped. "I understand!"

"Good! Fine! Marvellous!" John snapped back. He charged out of the door, but quite quickly came back and sat down on the bed. "I'm glad one of us understands, anyway."

Sherlock stopped stamping round the room and looked at him. Eventually he went to sit down on the bed too.

"I don't understand," he said. "It just seems more practical to me and you keep being evasive and I can't tell why."

John nodded. He looked around the room. "I think there are two things going on that I'm struggling with,' he said. "The first is that this was our flat. This is the place that Mary and I chose when we thought we wanted to have a baby. This is where we thought she'd grow up, and I find I'm a bit reluctant to give that up. It almost feels disloyal to Mary somehow."

Sherlock nodded slowly. John felt relieved that his friend was able understand this.

"The second thing," he went on, "is Scarlet. I'm not used to having someone as close to me as she is. Mary was gone far, far too soon, and she had friends and other people in her life. Scarlet's just got me. It's me and her. It's stupid I know, largely because I love seeing Scarlet with you, and I love that she loves you! But at the same time, part of me wishes she didn't love anyone apart from me. I don't want to share her."

They sat in silence following that revelation, both thinking about it.

"That's..." said Sherlock, searching for the right words. "That's really, really stupid."

"God, it is, isn't it?"

"It's understandable," Sherlock said.

"Yes."

"But stupid."

"Yes."

John started giggling. "Maybe I should just keep her in a box."

"You could lock her in her room," Sherlock suggested. "Might be a bit kinder than a box."

John giggled some more, and Sherlock smiled.

"I can actually understand it," Sherlock told him. "She is fairly perfect. She's certainly much better than any other child I see. I can see why you would want to keep her to yourself."

"It's not going to happen though, is it?"

"I shouldn't think so."

John nodded.

"It would be a shame too, on some levels."

"Yes," Sherlock said.

They were quiet for a while longer.

"I could murder a curry," Sherlock said. "Let's order food, and I promise I'll clear out in the morning."

"OK. Well, let's sort out Baker Street a bit, and we can talk to Mrs Hudson and see what she thinks about me and the Turnip coming back there with you."

"Really?"

"Yes," John said, and Sherlock grinned. "I won't sell up here yet. It might end up being completely impractical but if it goes well, I can rent this place out. It might be handy to have a bolt hole should Scarlet or I need it in the future. No offence meant."

"None taken."

"Right," John said, and he got up and headed out to the kitchen. "Let's see about some food."


	15. Late!

**I've decided to give you the prompts at the end; otherwise it becomes a bit too much like a spoiler (oh I flatter myself that this actually matters to someone!) Pip**

* * *

_Six_

Sherlock stared at the corpse in front of him. There was something that was bothering him. It was a little nagging doubt in the back of his mind, but he couldn't put his finger on what it was.

"Well?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock frowned. "He's a banker, equestrian, married, three children, all girls, disappointed about that, has just ended an affair..."

"Yes you've told me all of that!"

Sherlock was just about able to cover his wince. He didn't look up yet. He was aware that there were several police officers standing over him. He looked at the corpse again.

"There's something important about his watch," he muttered.

"His watch?" Anderson asked. "It won't give you the time of death. It's still going."

"Yes, thank you, Anderson!" Sherlock snapped. "I am able to tell if a watch is still working or not!"

The feeling that this one was getting away from him was upsetting his equilibrium.

He checked his own watch. The Omega on the corpse was showing the right time and date. The alarm wasn't set, so no clues there. It had been a gift from his wife, but not recently, so nothing there either. It was just a watch. So why was it gnawing at the back of his brain?

He watched as the minute hand clicked onto the nine. The sudden realisation was like ice water being poured down his back.

"Shit!" he said, and he stood up so quickly that he accidentally chinned Anderson. He didn't apologise. He just turned and ran.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade called after him. "What about the watch?"

"It's the time!" Sherlock yelled back. "I was supposed to be at the school fifteen minutes ago!"

oOo

He got the call when he was still in the cab. John started haranguing him as soon as he answered.

"Where the bloody hell are you?"

"I'm nearly there!"

"You should be at home by now! I can't believe you forgot!" John was yelling really quite loudly, and Sherlock briefly wondered if he was making a spectacle of himself in the lecture hall.

"I didn't forget!" Sherlock answered, and he instantly winced at the stupidity of his own lie.

"Then why aren't you there yet? The school just called me to find out who was picking up! She's the last child there!"

Sherlock couldn't think of an answer.

"I'm really sorry, John!"

"Don't tell me! Tell Scarlet!" John snapped, and he hung up.

oOo

The usual school gate was locked, so Sherlock made his way round to the main entrance. He could see Scarlet just inside. The school administrator buzzed the door to let Scarlet out to him.

"Hello, Turnip!" he said, and he gave her a huge smile.

She gave him a quick glance.

"My name's not Turnip."

She didn't take the offered hand but turned and walked off in the direction of home. He could tell she was trying to walk quickly though it was no effort for him to keep up with her.

"Did you have a good day?" he asked in a cheerful fashion.

"No."

"I'm sorry to hear that. What went wrong?"

She didn't answer.

Sherlock put his contrite face on.

"I'm sorry you were waiting," he said. She didn't answer. "You weren't waiting very long," he gently pointed out.

She said nothing.

They walked in silence until they got home. Scarlet climbed up the first three steps before she lost her internal battle and turned on him furiously. Her words tumbled out in a furious tearful mess.

"Dad said you were coming to pick me up!" she shouted through tears. "I really wanted you to come because I told Tessa and Serene that you were coming, and I told them you were a detective and could tell them anything about anyone! And I waited and you didn't come! And now Tessa and Serene don't believe me! And they all went to the park, and I couldn't go because I had to wait for you!" She was overcome by a huge sob, and she turned and ran up the stairs. She slammed the living room door after her.

Mrs Hudson opened her door. "Hello, Sherlock, you're back late! Did you take Scarlet to the park?"

Sherlock stared at her.

"Oh, Sherlock!" she said. "You didn't forget her, did you?"

Sherlock's heart sank into his shoes at the sight of Mrs Hudson's 'disappointed face'. He shuffled his feet for a moment, and then he turned and slowly up the stairs. He looked at the closed door to the living room, and opted to walk quietly in through the kitchen door. He was relieved that Scarlet seemed to have stopped crying. She had had turned on the television and was lying on the floor reading a book.

"What do you want to eat?" Sherlock called to her.

"Nothing!"

"Don't be silly, you have to eat something!"

"Whatever."

Sherlock bit his tongue and counted to three. "All right!" He started looking through the cupboards. "I'll choose then. It might be frog's legs though. Or snails!"

"You only know how to make pasta and sauce," Scarlet said.

He saw this as progress and walked to the kitchen divide. He gave her a huge smile.

"That's a very good point! Cooking isn't one of my strengths. Maybe you could show me how sometime? I think it would be nice to cook something with you!"

She stood up and took her book to the sofa, where she sat down with a huff and curled up with her back to him. Sherlock watched her for a moment.

"Wow, you really know how to sulk," he muttered to himself.

oOo

Twenty minutes later he carried two bowls of pasta into the front room. He put Scarlet's on the coffee table and sat down next to her. He had paid particular attention on this occasion, and the pasta wasn't undercooked, the sauce was still hot, but not burned, and he'd even grated cheese on top for her. It was true that the kitchen resembled a disaster site, and he wasn't quite sure how he'd used three saucepans, but the meal was at least edible.

"Scarlet, please eat it while it's hot," he said.

"'m not hungry." She didn't move.

"Please, Scarlet, eat something! I'm really, really sorry that I left you waiting."

"You forgot me."

"I'm sorry. I really am! But getting hungry isn't going to help."

They heard the front door close, and Scarlet leapt up and was half way down the stairs when she met John coming up. She jumped on him, and he caught her.

"Hey, Pickle! Did you have a good day?"

"No!" She buried her head in his neck.

"Was it because you had to wait?"

"Yes," came the muffled reply.

John got to the top of the stairs and glared at Sherlock. Sherlock shifted uncomfortably under his gaze.

"There's dinner in the pot for you," was all he found to say.

"Bring yours into the kitchen with me, Scarlet." John said, and he put her down. She picked up her bowl and scurried off after him.

Sherlock sat on the sofa by himself feeling very alone.

The television was still on, and John was talking very quietly, so Sherlock concentrated hard to listen to what they were saying.

"He forgot me!" Scarlet wailed. She sounded though she was crying again.

"No he didn't, sweetheart, he just lost track of the time, that's all."

"He did forget!" she insisted.

"No, no." John replied. "Listen, Scarlet, remember how we talked about how Sherlock's brain works? How there's sometimes too much in there and it pushes other stuff out? Well nothing in the whole world could push you out of Sherlock's brain. He loves you too much, and he doesn't ever want to hurt you. But sometimes things like what time it is can get pushed out because time's quite boring to him. So he forgot the time it was and forgot the time school finishes. But he didn't forget you. Do you understand?"

Sherlock didn't hear her answer, but he heard John send her upstairs for her bath, so he assumed she must have accepted it. Her footfalls as she ran upstairs sounded light and normal, and he was relieved. He went through to the kitchen. John was at the sink, starting the washing up.

"Thank you," Sherlock said to John's back.

John turned to him with eyes blazing with fury.

"Sherlock _bloody_ Holmes! I could flay you alive right now!"

* * *

**So this one was based on this prompt:**

_**I'd like to see a chapter where Sherlock's meant to pick Scarlet up from school but forgets her **_**– KatKin**

**Your next thrilling instalment will be based on the second part of that;**

_**... and she's sad as realises how obsessed with his work he is. – **_**KatKin**

**But also on this;**

_**What about something a little angsty? About Scarlet being maybe 6 or 7 and finally realizing the very dangerous implications of uncle Sherlock's job? Could be kind of accidentally, either because she overheard a conversation with Lestrade or because Sherlock came home wounded at some ungodly hour and John was treating him and she happened to get up to go to the bathroom and saw him all hurt and covered in blood.**_** – Umi Ungalad.**

**I'm also going to do something a little different with the style, because, well, just to see if I can. Bet you're all on the edges of your seats now, huh?**


	16. Scarlet 1

**OK, in this one we're so far away from what I believe Sherlock FanFic should be that I really do have to apologise. Really, really sorry. I just really loved this idea and wanted to see how it worked and then had massive fun writing it, and like I keep saying; this one really is for fun. I hope that at least some of you like it and think it at reads well and, well, for more serious Sherlock FanFic, please see some of my other stories and/or the many on my favourites list from authors who are much better than I am. Alternatively, when I update this with chapter 19 I'll be back to my normal style, so even if you don't like this; please come back later.**

**Just try to think of this as a bit different or something.**

**I'm also publishing all the chapters relating to this bit together to save myself from the flurry of 'this is just awful' reviews. **

**In conclusion; please don't hate me.**

**

* * *

**_Thirteen._

The diary of Scarlet Watson.

_Monday July 5__th_.

I'm awake and it's stupidly early. At first I thought it must be Sherlock who sometimes makes loads of noise at night until Dad goes and yells at him which is even louder and in the end nobody gets any sleep. But today everything is really quiet and it was only just after 4:00 so I don't know why I'm awake.

I think it must be that I'm worried about my art project. The art project is this; everyone in the school has to draw portraits of their family, then they all go into a competition and the ten best from each year get put on display for an art show on Friday and then they go into a silent auction to raise money for the school. The silent auction is one where there isn't a man yelling prices; you write your name down and how much you'll pay and then you put it in an envelope and the highest one gets the picture but has to pay for it. It's a bit stupid really, because everyone's parents just pay for their pictures but I guess the stupid school thinks that money is more important than art for art's sake or encouraging the students and stuff.

Anyhow, now I can't stop thinking about my pictures. I think the auction's stupid but I still really want to win a place. The portraits are really annoying me though. Dad's one is cool, because I've used oils and that's my best... art thing. Medium? Anyhow, I'm best with oils but I don't use them much because Dad goes nuts when they get everywhere and they cost an absolute fortune to buy. I have to wait and ask for them for Christmas or Birthday.

Anyhow, I feel a bit bad about Mum's because I've only got a few pictures of her. I think she was pretty and the one where Dad's with her is nice but it's not who I think of when I think of her. So I did an apple tree instead because that is what I think of (I don't know why but the apple tree is in my head where my Mum should be). I think that one will be disqualified.

Then I did one of Sherlock because I don't exactly have much family and he is always around. I see more of him than Serene sees of her Dad. I probably shouldn't say that to her though. So I did one of oils for Dad, oh and watercolour for Mum, but Sherlock was trouble. Like always, ha ha. The pencil drawing I did to work out the composition out came out really well but it was only A4, so I thought I'd do black and white but the charcoal one just turned into a huge mess. I've tried again with some waxy pastels I've got and it's OK, but it isn't right. And I've cheated a bit because it's supposed to be black and white but I've used two greys as well. Not that that's a competition rule; it's just not strictly black and white and I'm annoyed about that.

OMG, someone's coming up the stairs! My heart's beating so fast! They're trying not to make a noise. What if it's burglars? If it is, I hope Dad or Sherlock hear them and get up. I don't want to have to deal with burglars.

They're going into the bathroom. I think I can hear Dad talking to someone. That's weird; where's he been? I thought he was asleep.

There was just a huge crash. I'm think they must know that I didn't sleep through that so I'm going to go and check. I do need a wee so it seems fair.

oOo

OK, I'm in the school library before registration because I had to write down about how weird this morning was. It was very, very strange. And quite scary too.

First of all, it definitely wasn't burglars. The bathroom door was already open so I just pushed it a bit to see inside. Sherlock was sat on the toilet and he was covered with all this blood and dirt. I mean the toilet lid was down and he was sat on it, he wasn't using the toilet or anything. Anyhow, he was really shaking and Dad was trying to sew up his forehead which had a massive cut on it. I think he could see me, but he didn't speak and Dad was looking at him not me. There was someone else there too; I think he's a friend of Sherlock's but he's really old. He's sometimes here when I come home from school but they always stop talking when I come in. I think his name's Lester something.

Anyhow, Dad was sewing up Sherlock and it was disgusting but I couldn't help looking. He does really small stitches. I might have to ask him how so I can sew my own clothes. I wouldn't want to sew people though. There was loads of blood and I wondered if I should faint or something but I didn't. Anyhow, the Lester guy noticed I was there and told Dad and then Dad looked round really worried. He didn't say anything though; he just looked back to Sherlock. I wonder if he'd have stopped if I had have fainted. I bet he wouldn't.

Anyhow he told me to go back to bed but my legs weren't working and I still needed to wee. I didn't say that though because it didn't look like Sherlock could move anywhere. He looked really grey. Apart from where he was bleeding and that was dark red mostly.

Then Sherlock said to me "Scarlet, go away." Which I thought was a bit rude really, but then he leaned over and threw up really badly in the bath so I thought maybe he wasn't thinking about not being rude right then.

Then I don't know why I said it, but I said "Can I do anything?" That was odd because unless someone had said "yes; run screaming from the room," I don't think I would have been able to do anything but my mouth was saying things without checking with my brain first. Anyway, Dad looked at me a bit while Lester stopped Sherlock falling into the bath and then he said "can you make a cup of tea with three sugars in it?" and I said "Yes" and went downstairs.

It was really cold in the kitchen and I couldn't stop shaking so I picked up one of Dad's jumpers but then it had blood all over it so I threw it away. Into the lounge I mean, not into the bin. But it did make me jump. It also made me think; what if that was Dad's blood? I got really shivery thinking about that. I didn't _think_ Dad was bleeding but it was hard to tell because I couldn't stop looking at Sherlock.

The kettle clicked off and I went to make the tea but I was a bit confused. Sherlock only takes two sugars and Dad doesn't take any. Maybe it was for Lester but it would be a bit rude asking for tea when Sherlock's in that state and Dad's trying to fix him. Anyhow, I wasn't sure so I made three cups, one with no sugar, one with two, and one with three, then I put them on a tray. Then just in case I put the sugar and a spoon on the tray and carried it upstairs.

It must have taken me a while because Dad and Lester had moved Sherlock into his room. I think they were a bit surprised to see me which was odd because they'd asked for the tea. Lester took the tray from me. I told him the sugary one was in the striped cup and he smiled at me. I guess he's kind really and just really wanted tea, but Dad took it and tried to give it to Sherlock. I didn't tell him that it was the wrong one.

Dad kept telling Sherlock to stay awake and open his eyes and stuff which was really mean because Sherlock clearly wanted to go to sleep. Lester asked if they should take him to hospital and I hoped that Dad would say yes but he didn't. Sherlock looked really awful. He looked really pale now and thin. I thought how he was starting to look like his black and white picture a bit. But he also looked a bit like he was about to die and when I thought that I got a bit shaky again and wanted to cry.

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at me and just said "Scarlet I'm fine." It was clearly a lie so it annoyed me and it also reminded Dad I was there so he told me to go and wait in my room and he'd come in later.

Because my mouth still wasn't listening to my brain, I said "Are you hurt?" to him and he got up and came over and said he was fine. He put his hands on my shoulders and said he was really fine, but I should go back to my room and he'd come and talk to me in a minute. So I went.

I was still really shivery so I put on my painting jumper (another old one of Dad's but it's mine now really) and got into bed, but I couldn't go back to sleep.

Dad did come in. He told me he was fine again which I already knew. He was dirty but I could see he wasn't bleeding. He asked me if I wanted to ask any questions so I thought he must be feeling guilty about something because he never asks that; he just tells me stuff he thinks I want to know and I almost never do. I wondered if I should take the opportunity to ask him about cutting my hair and dying it red, but my mouth still wasn't paying attention again so instead I asked "will Sherlock be OK?"

He said yes he hoped so but he was going to sleep in Sherlock's room to make sure he didn't need anything.

Then I asked what happened to him. Dad started telling me a really long story about how Sherlock helps the police, which I already knew, and that there was this Bad Man and Sherlock had found him but they'd got into a fight. I didn't really follow it all because Dad can be a bit boring sometimes, but I did ask how often Sherlock does this sort of thing. Dad says a lot. He says it's his work. That made me think of something else.

"Do you go with him?" I asked him. He seemed a bit worried and had that look he gets when he's wondering whether to lie. I knew then that he did even before he told me. So if someone can beat up Sherlock, they can beat up Dad too. I got cross then and I started to cry. I hate that I start to cry when I get angry because people think I'm sad but I'm not; I'm cross. I was cross with Dad because he doesn't think about what will happen to me if he does something stupid and he dies or something. And I was more cross with Sherlock because I bet you anything that Dad wouldn't go if Sherlock didn't go first.

Then Dad started to say he was sorry, and then I started shouting at him a bit. I don't remember what I said but I know I said he was stupid, and that I couldn't believe he'd left me alone in the house while he went out to potentially get killed. I think my mouth still wasn't listening to my brain but I was quite glad because my mouth was coming out with some good stuff and my brain wasn't working at all.

Dad looked really sad, but I was still cross. He said something odd to me. He said "You have to understand that Sherlock can't not do what he does, and he (Dad) could either send him out on his own or go with him."

And I said; "But what about me?"

And Dad said; "You're more important than anything else is to both of us, but what Sherlock does is important too. He does an awful lot of good for an awful lot of people, and while he's sometimes really annoying (he's not wrong there) and the doing good part isn't his main motivation (?) he tends to come out on the right side of the good/bad divide."

And I said; "But what about me?" again because I didn't think he understood.

And he said that neither he or Sherlock would let anything bad happen to me. I told him that I didn't think he could say that if they leave me alone in the house and they might be killed at any moment.

I didn't say anything else for a while and then he asked me if I wanted to move back home. That was odd. Wasn't this home? I thought he must mean his other flat but that's got students in it. I suppose they could leave but it was still a bit weird. He was looking at me so I just said I didn't know.

Then he looked sad again but just said we'd talk more in the morning and I should try and get some sleep. It was after 5:00 by now so that was a funny joke.


	17. Scarlet 2

_Still Monday._

It's lunchtime now but I hadn't finished about the morning. It was a long morning.

I still needed to wee and I wasn't going to go to sleep so I got up again. I could hear Dad in the bathroom cleaning it which was a bit odd, but it had been an odd night. I went past to look into Sherlock's room. Lester was still there and he stood up and stopped talking when I came in again and just looked at me like I was stupid.

Then Sherlock told him it was OK and then for some reason Lester said he needed something downstairs and left. I didn't like that; what if Sherlock needed something? Or died? Or was sick again? He wasn't though, he just asked if I was OK but my mouth had given up now as well as my brain, so I just nodded. He said that was good.

I went into his room a bit, but not too much, just in case.

He said he was really sorry that I'd seen him this evening. I was too but I still couldn't talk so just nodded again. He put his hand out so I went closer and took it. His hand was cold so I tried to warm it up in my hands for a bit.

He smiled even though he still looked sad and told me I was just like my Dad which surprised me quite a bit because I'm nothing like my Dad.

Then he said "I don't want you to worry about your Dad, Scarlet. I look after him. I promise I do. He's never been badly hurt since you've been born."

Then I thought about all the times he'd been a bit hurt a little bit and got cross again. He'd had a sprained wrist at Christmas time. What was that about? And what about before I was born? Now I'd have to start watching him more closely in case I missed something. I hated this. I let go of Sherlock's hand and started to leave.

They I noticed something really funny. I used to come into Sherlock's room all the time when I was little, but hadn't for ages. I suddenly noticed on the back of his door he'd stuck up loads of pictures of me. Not just of me, but ones with Dad in them and even one with Mum in it. I wish I'd known he had it when I was trying to do the art project; it's a really nice one with her and a tiny baby. I guess it's me. There was other stuff too; a letter that I wrote him when I was five and he was in hospital with appendicitis and some pictures I'd drawn. One was of him but it was rubbish because I was little when I did it, but others were just of other things. Looking at it all there made my throat feel funny but I think it was just because I was tired. If I'd have found them in someone else's room it would have been really creepy, but it was Sherlock and sometimes he's a bit like a Dad. Not a real dad, obviously, but like a step-dad or something.

Dad came in then and got cross that I was there so I left and finally went to wee. When I went back to my room, I looked at the picture of Sherlock and I really wanted to smash it to pieces. I was so cross with him. I wasn't just cross though; there was something else. It felt a bit like sadness but not quite. And I think I was a tiny bit scared too. That makes no sense. I'm just tired. I didn't smash his picture though. I just sat on the bed looking at it.

When I was in his room, he looked really sad. And he looked worried too. And he'd looked a bit scared. Of me. That was really strange because I don't know why he'd be scared of me. And I thought about what Dad said too, about how he couldn't stop doing... whatever it is he does. I don't understand it, and I don't like it, but I think it's a part of him. And Dad really likes him and I mostly really like Dad. I really don't want Sherlock to die.

I suddenly realised what his picture needed; colour. Sherlock isn't black and white. He's just not. I picked up a red pastel and started drawing on it. Not actually drawing the blood; that would be too obvious, but I started colouring in some of the background and some of the shadows on his face. I was still a bit angry though and at one point I accidentally drew through Sherlock's eye with it so I stopped. It looked OK though so I left it. I just smudged it into his eyebrow a bit with my thumb. I added some orange in too and a bit of yellow, then a tiny bit of electric blue.

I liked it then. I also liked that I'd just made the deadline; if this whole epiphany had come tomorrow night I'd have missed it entirely. Maybe Sherlock wasn't completely useless. But I was still cross with him.

Dad didn't get up before school so I made my own toast and just came out. I was still cross with him too and really tired and confused, so I was quite glad I didn't see him.

I've got to go now because lunch has finished and then I have to hand in my art project. I'm really tired too, I'm glad it's just art then home.

_Evening_

What an awful day. First of all there was the whole drama this morning. I could have lived without that, epiphany or not. Then I realised after lunch that I've had blue pastel on my face all day which was probably because of all the drama this morning and being so tired. I can't believe nobody had mentioned it. They've probably been laughing at me all day. Then finally I went into the Art class and I realised that I'd got the whole assignment confused. What they wanted was one picture of ALL your family. Not one of each of them. Everyone else had a crowd scene or had just chosen one person to draw. I had two portraits and an Apple Tree. Mr Simmons wanted to know which one I wanted to submit.

Obviously I dropped the Apple Tree. I mean, I'm sure Mum wouldn't mind. The trouble was that the picture of Sherlock was now _really good_ and the one of my Dad, is _my Dad_. I felt really stupid. I was really cross with both of them still as people, but they were good pictures. I just stood there looking at both while Mr Simmons looked at me. I think I was mostly too tired to have a proper opinion.

He said I should definitely put in the Sherlock one because it was outstanding. That was his word; "outstanding". I should have felt happy about that but the other one was my Dad. I think the Sherlock one is probably was better. But, my Dad, well, I think if I only have the one parent left, he should probably come first. Even if he's boring and stupid.

I asked if he could give me a day to think about it and I must have looked a bit tearful or something because he said fine, leave them both with him for now and we'd talk about it again tomorrow.

Dad was up when I got home but Sherlock was still in bed. Dad says he's OK and I shouldn't worry, but I don't care any more. This whole day's gone stupidly wrong and all they can think about is how ill Sherlock is and how I might be upset about that when it's all their stupid fault in the first place. And Dad didn't even ask how school was and I don't want to tell him about the art competition because he wouldn't understand.

I told him I just wanted a sandwich and brought it up here because I don't want to have to talk to him or look at him while he's looking so sad. Now my French homework still needs doing which I haven't started because I did three stupid pictures instead of one. And while I did know about the Art thing for two months, obviously the final touches will be done at the final minute. So I thought I'd write this instead and pretend I forgot my book or something tomorrow in French.

Damn, I can hear Dad coming upstairs. Maybe he's going to see Sherlock.

oOo

He wanted to talk to me. I feel a bit better than I did though. For one thing he said that he said he'd write me a note for my French homework so I won't get detention, so that proves that Dads are good for something. He also said that it would be fine to use the Sherlock picture for the art show if I wanted to because he knows that I love him best without seeing a picture. I guess that's cool too, but he hasn't seen the pictures yet so he can't know for sure.

He'd brought me a hot chocolate and he had one for himself too. He sat down on my bed so I guessed he intended to stay for a bit. I was still cross though and nothing made any sense any more so I just sat there.

He told me he was sorry about last night. He said that things had been getting out of hand but he hadn't noticed. He had thought that it would be OK to go out on cases with Sherlock as long as Mrs Hudson was in or I was at school as long as I didn't know so I didn't get worried.

I pointed out that I knew now and I _was_ worried.

And he just said "yeah." And drank some more hot chocolate.

He then asked again if we should move back to the other flat. It felt weird and I said I didn't know again. I said I wasn't sure if it should be my choice.

And he said "I don't think it works that way any more Scarlet. You're thirteen, you know the sort of stuff that goes on in the world and if you don't yet you soon will. It's not ideal, but it's there. We can all choose to ignore it, or we can try to do something about it. Sherlock has an amazing brain, he really can help. He can really make a difference, but he's better and he's safer if I (Dad) go with him."

I asked if Sherlock would stop going and Dad said no. Not even if I asked him. He said he couldn't stop and it is part of who he is.

I asked if he and Dad were like superheroes and he laughed and said "Yes, if you can consider a knackered old soldier and an extremely arrogant and self-absorbed genius as superheroes."

I have to admit, they weren't a likely pair to imagine in lycra with capes.

But then I said "I don't think there are superheroes, Dad, and if there aren't, I guess we just have to use whoever we have got."

Then he looked at me for a long time and blinked a lot like he was going to cry. So then I changed the subject and told him about the art project and the French homework. I thought while he seemed in impressed by me I'd ask about the red hair dye but he just said "we'll see." and he used his 'no' voice and not his 'yes' voice.

Before he went, he told me he wanted me to really think about the flat thing. He said that puberty's hard enough without having to worry about what your Dad and his psycho house-mate are doing. He said it would be fine either way but I had to make an informed decision and think about it properly. I said I would, but I'd never really thought about Sherlock being just a house-mate.

I also wish he wouldn't use the word puberty; it's so embarrassing.

I'm really tired now even though it's not even 9:00 so I'm going to sleep.

oOo

_Tuesday_ _July 6__th_

The worst day ever. Me and Serene got lunchtime detention for flicking paper around in Geography and because of that, I forgot to go and find Mr Simmons to tell him which painting to use. I'd chosen the Dad one because even though it's not the better picture, I love him most and he is really and truly family. And it's still a good picture so it still might win a place at the auction. Apart from now it won't because I totally forgot to find him and tell him so now neither of them will go in.

I'm so stupid. I hate my life.


	18. Scarlet 3

_Wednesday July 7__th_

I'm on the bus. Guess what! Mr Simmons said that they've chosen me for the auction after all! And they've said that I can show both the portraits; Dad _and_ Sherlock! I can't believe it! I'm so excited! I can't wait to tell Dad! Serene said it wasn't fair because I got to enter twice but I don't care, even if she stopped talking to me all afternoon!

oOo

Well, it's been another dramatic night. I'm seriously thinking about moving out now; I don't think my nerves will stand much more of this. Everyone I live with is being such a pre-Madonna. (Why Pre-Madonna anyway? Were people more dramatic before she came along? It's hard to imagine how they could be.)

Anyway, I ran home from the bus stop and ran upstairs calling for Dad, only Dad wasn't there, Sherlock was. It was the first time I'd seen him since the other night. He looked really pale still but quite a lot better. He was looking at me worried asking if something was wrong and I said no I just had something to tell Dad. He said Dad had to go out and then he just looked at me with that scared look again. I didn't know what to say so I told him about the art show and how my pictures were going into the auction.

He smiled and said well done and it was brilliant and all of the usual stuff but I told him he didn't have to pretend because I knew that the school stuff wasn't important to him.

He then looked sad and told me that it was important and that I was important, it's just that the work was important too.

I didn't know what to say to that. I know what he does is important because Dad told me it was. It doesn't make it less dangerous though. If he could do it all from a library it would be fine but I don't think he really understands that. I didn't really know how to say any of that, so I just offered him a cup of tea.

He said no and to sit down with him so he could talk to me, so I did but he didn't say anything for a while and I started thinking about my portraits and wondering where they'd be in the hall and how much Dad would pay for them. Then Sherlock asked me if whether I wanted Dad to stop going on cases with him.

My mouth took over again and said "I just want Dad to be happy." He looked surprised. I was too; I'm not usually as nice as that. Then my brain got into gear and added "and ideally not dead." Then that sounded selfish so I told him I didn't want him to die either which was true.

He nodded for a while. Then he asked me if I'd thought about moving to the other flat at all.

I said "I've thought about it, but Dad wants me to make an informed choice."

He nodded some more but didn't tell me what I should do so that was a bit useless. How am I supposed to make an informed choice if no-one tells me what to do?

His phone rang then and he answered it so I thought about my paintings again. I suddenly noticed he wasn't talking on the phone any more and was staring at me. I asked him what was wrong.

He said Lestrade had called and he'd got a case. I guess Lester's real name is Lestrade. I wish people would tell me these things.

I asked if he was going and he looked at me for ages and finally said "Yes."

He stood up but winced a bit so I asked if he was sure he was well enough to go out and he laughed and said I really was just like my Dad. I told him to stop saying that because I'm not.

And he said "Scarlet; your Dad is perhaps the finest person I've ever met. It's not an insult to be considered like him."

Then I got embarrassed.

He asked if I'd be OK with Mrs Hudson downstairs. Then my stupid, stupid mouth said "Can I come with you?"

He looked at me for ages and I couldn't tell what he was thinking. I'd said it now, so even though my brain was going "No! This really isn't a good idea!" I felt like I couldn't back out. I didn't want him to think I was scared and surely if it was OK for them to go it should be OK for me too?

I thought Sherlock would say no anyway, and I'd be safe, but he didn't, he said OK.

The cab ride was fun; I never get to go in cabs, only buses and the underground. Sherlock was really quiet and staring out of the window so I looked out the other window at the shop displays. The new Miu Miu collection is in Harrods. I must go and have a proper look at it.

When we got to the crime scene I was a bit surprised that it was some yards at the back of a railway line. I guess people must do crimes anywhere. We got to the police tape and Sherlock said that I had to wait there; I couldn't come with him. I thought that was a bit pointless but I nodded anyway. My mouth seemed to have stopped working again and my brain wasn't doing much better.

Sherlock went over to talk to Lestrade who was there too. There were some other policemen and women there and they all looked busy. Someone was taking loads of pictures with a Canon camera. I wondered if it was any good. The camera I mean.

Sherlock spent a long time crouched down looking at something. I could just see two feet sticking out from behind a police car so I thought that must be a body. I got a bit shivery thinking about it, even though it was quite a warm evening. Sherlock got up and started walking round and looking at things really closely. He did loads of spinning and whirling. He looked a bit like a dancer. For a second, I was really proud that I was there with him, but then felt silly because nobody knew that I was. I think he must have whirled a bit too much because he suddenly caught hold of a police car to steady himself. I ducked under the police tape to see if he was OK, but he seemed to be because he got up to talk to Lestrade about something he could see in a corner.

I could see a bit more of the legs now and I wondered what the rest looked like. Nobody was looking so I walked forwards a bit to see just a bit more.

I didn't actually see very much. Or at least not for a long time but I think this is what I saw. There was a boy, he was older than me, but I don't think he was fully grown up yet. The main thing about him was that he had a massive hole in the back of his head. There was loads of blood; I think even more than was on Sherlock the other night and it was all around his head like a puddle. It looked black and shiny. His hair was short and brown but mostly I kept looking at the hole. My brain was telling me to look away but my eyes wouldn't listen. Why does nothing listen to my brain?

Things got a bit fuzzy then. I know I didn't scream because I couldn't breathe but suddenly everything started going grey and then everyone was running at me. The next thing I knew Sherlock was carrying me away. He sat me down on some wood just outside the yard and I leaned on the wall. He asked if I was OK and I nodded, even though I couldn't stop shaking and my mouth was really dry. Lestrade was there then and he gave me a bottle of water and that helped. I think he really must be a kind person, even if he doesn't talk to me a lot.

Lestrade went back in but Sherlock stayed with me. He asked if I wanted to go home.

I asked what had happened to the boy.

Sherlock said he'd been murdered.

I asked if he knew who had done it.

He said no, but it was the same person who'd killed the old woman in the newsagents a couple of weeks before. He didn't know why either of them was dead.

I asked if he'd find out and he said yes.

And I think then I understood why his work is important.

Then the really dramatic part happened. Dad was suddenly there and he was really, really cross. I've never seen him like that before; not even when I got blue poster paint all over Mrs Hudson's wallpaper. He picked up Sherlock by the collar and shoved him against the wall. I didn't think it was fair when Sherlock was still quite weak but I didn't say anything. I couldn't anyway; Dad was shouting too much. He said "What the hell do you think you're doing? Are you out of your tiny mind! You had no right to bring her here! You stupid, stupid man." I think he said some swears too but I've cleaned it up a bit.

I was really shocked and I felt bad for Sherlock too, because I had asked to come. I don't know what Sherlock said; I just remember all these police being around and watching them. Lestrade tried to get Dad to calm down but he told him to 'F off' only with the full word. He did let Sherlock go though. He told me I was going home with him so I got up and followed him. He turned round and said to Sherlock "I will never, ever forgive you for this!"

He was walking really fast so I had to run a bit to keep up. I tried to tell him that it wasn't Sherlock's fault and I'd asked to come with him but he just said "Not now, Scarlet." Then tried to find a cab. I didn't enjoy that cab ride at all. Dad looked so angry so I couldn't even tell him about the art competition. He bought me a bag of chips from up the road but didn't get anything to eat himself and still didn't say anything.

I ate my chips and came up to my room.

Sherlock must have just come home because they're now having a massive row in the front room. I've opened my door and I can hear what they're saying. They're being loud; usually I have to hide in the hallway to hear them.

It's mostly the same stuff. Dad saying he shouldn't have taken me to a crime scene, and Sherlock saying that I'd asked to come, then Dad said "She's thirteen for God's sake!" like that has anything to do with it. Then Sherlock asked how I was supposed to make an informed choice if they didn't inform me of anything. Then Dad said the thirteen thing again, then some other stuff.

Now he's told Sherlock that we were moving out. So much for it being my choice. I think they're stopping now. I can hear Dad coming upstairs. I hope he doesn't come in here. I don't want to be yelled at like that.

oOo

Dad did come up and see me, but he didn't yell. He didn't say much at first at all. Just stood in my room and said "I'm really sorry, Scarlet." He was crying too. That made me feel weird and I didn't know what to do.

He tried to stop crying and said "If your Mum was alive, she'd kick my arse up and down the high street for all of this."

I wondered how it could be his fault. Then he said to me "I think we need to move away for a bit, Scarlet."

I really didn't want to but I really didn't know what to say. So I told him about the art show.

He just stared at me like I had two heads. I realised he probably wanted to talk about the whole crime solving thing and not about the art show, so I said to him "I don't want to move out, and I don't want Sherlock to stop doing his crime stuff, and if it's safer with you there and you want to still do it then you should. But I don't want to go to any more crime scenes."

Then he started crying again and came over and gave me a massive hug and said "Scarlet Jennifer Watson; you are an extraordinary and brilliant individual. I love you so much."

I don't know what I'd done to deserve that. He let go and said he'd continue thinking about it. He said he wanted to do what was best for me but he would take my views on board.

He's in the shower now. I still don't know where I'll be living or whether anyone at all is going to bother coming to the art show.

oOo

_Thursday 7__th__ July_

Dad says it's not 'pre-madonna' but 'Prima-Donna' and it means 'first lady' and they were traditionally the people in plays who acted all hysterical. It's a bit sexist really. Anyhow, everyone who lives in this house is one apart from Mrs Hudson who gave me cake today and is lovely.

Dad and Sherlock aren't talking to each other still. They're both being extra nice to me though. I'd still prefer it if they stopped being so silly to each other and normal with me.

oOo

_Friday 8__th__ July._

Fab night! I'm so happy!

I have to tell you about the art show. It was really good and loads of people came up to say my pictures were amazing so that felt good. I was really proud. Serene didn't come but lots of my other friends did and they all wrote nice things in my message book which we have to have on the tables in front of our pictures. Apart from Kate Jenkins who wrote "you're step-dad is well hot!" which is gross because he's old enough to be her Dad. And he's not my step-dad either.

Anyhow, it was all going really well until this old man turned up and he stared at my Sherlock picture for ages and then he said "That's really quite extraordinary." Then he put a bid in an envelope for it. It seems a bit random to try to by a picture of someone you don't even know. I had to run after him too because he left his umbrella behind.

Stella O'Neill who was in the show too and she grabbed me and said "creepy or what!" and I had to agree. Still; at least one of my pictures got a bid which was lucky because both Dad and Sherlock were late. Dad turned up first and he came over. He looked at them for ages too and he bit his lip. I really hoped he wasn't going to cry again because parents really shouldn't cry; it's just too weird.

I reminded him that he was supposed to bid for them and then said sorry for making him buy two, but that he could just pay half as much as usual for each. He smiled at that so it must have been a good idea. He did bid though and then went off to get snacks.

Sherlock finally turned up too. He is often late for stuff I've noticed. He also spent ages looking at the pictures. He didn't say anything but he also put a bid on them. I told him that he didn't need to because Dad did already but he did anyway. He then took my comment book away for a while. People can be weird sometimes.

After he brought the comment book back he asked where Dad was so I pointed him out. I suddenly worried that they were going to have another massive row and really embarrass me but they didn't. They went over to chat in a corner and eventually they started grinning. I don't know what was so funny. They seemed a bit more normal after that.

It got to 8:00 so Mrs Jones came round to open all the bids. Some of them were quite good. Adam Richardson's painting got a hundred pounds but his Dad's really rich. I hoped mine wasn't too embarrassing though. Most of them were ten or fifteen so I hoped I'd get that. Even if it was just money for the school.

Mrs Jones got to me and opened my Dad's bid's first. There were only the two. The winning bid was Sherlock's which was one hundred and fifty pounds. I was amazed and went really red.

She then opened the Sherlock bids and took an absolute age over it. She got to one of them and said "Someone's confident! There's already a cheque in this one!" And people laughed. Then she went a bit quiet and said to me; "do you know a Mycroft Holmes?"

I said no but Sherlock said yes, that the bid and the cheque were real and even if he didn't win the picture he'd want the school to have the cheque. Great; now I bet everyone at school thinks I've got a really rich uncle somewhere.

Anyhow, Mrs Jones said "Oh he's won the picture. Ladies and Gentlemen, the winning bid on Scarlet Watson's picture is one thousand five hundred pounds.

Then I went really red again and stopped breathing for a bit. Everyone was clapping and I didn't know where to look.

So that was that. Dad and Sherlock took me out for Chinese afterwards which was really nice. I guess we're not moving out for a while. They've agreed at the moment to just be a lot more careful but I can't see that happening. At least they are going to try though.

The only think that I'm puzzled about were the other bids. Sherlock only bid seventy five pounds for his own picture, but one hundred and fifty for Dad's even though his own picture was better. Dad only bet ten pounds for his but fifty for Sherlock's which isn't what I said to do at all.

I guess it's like I say. People are just plain weird.

oOo

* * *

**And there you go. I bet anyone who's still reading is heartily sick of Scarlet bloody Watson now, but I've had lots of fun with this one.**

**It's been a long, long time since I was a thirteen year old girl, so I'm hoping she's not too out of the ordinary.**

**Next prompt should anyone still be with me is this; **

_**one little thing that I would like to see since you had John and Scarlet move back in with Sherlock- John obviously knows and trusts Sherlock with Scarlet and I'm sure that Scarlet will grow up accepting and understanding her uncle's quirks but what if Scarlet wants to bring a friend home?**_** – FindingRainbows.**

**It will be in my usual style but might not be up as quick because I'm **_**really**_** neglecting my family at the moment. (But having fun.)**


	19. Birthday Party

**First off – thank you so, so much for all the reviews for the last lot! I feel so honoured that so many people take the time to let me know what works or not or just that some of the chapters made them smile. Really, really thank you.**

**To explain the nerves with the last chapters; OCs are often a dodgy area and my preference is to use them as little as possible and only where they're necessary to the plot of the story. So it felt utterly wrong to me to not only have such a central character, but then to allow her to speak; I thought I'd be pilloried for that. Scarlet started very much as a prop and nothing more (though John might not ever have thought so) but she grew.**

**Anyhow, it would seem that there are enough people who'd quite like me to continue with this so I will.**

**

* * *

**_Seven_

Sherlock closed the door and started walking upstairs. When he got to the landing he became aware of a loud noise coming from the floor above him. It was a rattling, rumbling, banging sound interspersed with high pitched squeaks and squeals. He stayed absolutely still. It sounded similar to the sound of a train passing by at extremely close quarters and he was convinced that the house was shaking slightly. The noise descended as a stream of children ran down the stairs and into the front room.

He went straight into the kitchen where he was relieved to find John cutting sandwiches to add to a mountain of food.

"Why are there so many children in our house?" He asked him, dropping a carrier bag down on the surface.

John looked up. "Because it's Scarlet's birthday party today. And there aren't 'so many' children, there are just five and one of them lives here."

"That's today?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes, it's today. I did warn you about this several times, and I reminded you yesterday, and it's on the calendar." John pointed to a calendar on the wall which inexplicably had a picture of a cat on it. On one of the days there was the note 'Scarlet's party' in big letters. It had a star drawn round it.

"I thought it was tomorrow." Sherlock said.

"It was tomorrow yesterday when you went out, but we've had a whole night since and now it's today. I thought you'd taken my advice and decided to stay away. And stop eating the Jammy Dodgers; they're not for you."

There was suddenly the sound of high pitched screeching and screaming from the living room. Sherlock looked alarmed.

"What's wrong with them?" He asked.

"Nothing; I expect they've found something funny that's all." John told him, unperturbed.

The noise descended into giggles and Sherlock relaxed a bit.

"Are you sure there are only five of them?" He asked.

"They're just a bit excited that's all."

The kitchen divide slid open and Scarlet's head popped through.

"Is the food nearly ready?" She asked.

"Yes; give me three minutes." John told her.

"Sherlock! You came home!" She said, sounding delighted. "Do you want to come and meet my friends?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No." He told her frankly.

She giggled and grabbed his hand dragging him into the front room. He noted that there really were only four other children present. Two of them were holding hands and giggling. All of them were looking at him.

"This is Sherlock!" Scarlet said. "He's a detective!"

Four sets of eyes widened.

"Like on CSI Miami?" Asked miscellaneous child No1

He opened his mouth but Scarlet answered "Yes! Just like on CSI Miami!"

"Do you see loads of dead bodies?" Miscellaneous child No1 asked.

Scarlet answered again. "Yes! All the time!"

"Do you poke them?" Asked Miscellaneous child No2.

"Only when he has to." Scarlet answered.

Four little heads nodded, sagely.

"How tall are you?" Asked Hand-holder No1

"_Very_ tall." Scarlet said.

While he disliked the inaccuracy, he was feeling more relaxed now it had become clear he didn't have to talk at all.

"I bet he's not as tall as my Dad." Said Hand-holder No2.

"I bet he is!" Said Miscellaneous Child No1.

"No, her Dad's at least, like, seven foot tall." Said Hand-holder No1.

John appeared from the kitchen. "Scarlet, food's ready." He said.

Five girls streamed into the kitchen. Sherlock sat down in his armchair and John came and joined him. He looked exhausted but was smiling.

"They're just going to eat and their parents should be here soon." He said to Sherlock. "All in all, I think it's gone pretty well."

"Good." Said Sherlock. He seemed to have something on his mind. "What's CSI Miami?"

"It's a cop show from America. Why?"

"Apparently I'm just like the detectives on that."

"Who lets a six year old watch CSI Miami?" John said frowning. "People can be a bit crazy."

"Scarlet seemed well informed about it." Sherlock pointed out.

"Oh, Scarlet will say anything, Sherlock." John told him. "She just wants to fit in."

They sat quietly for a while, vaguely listening to snippets of conversation and lots of giggles coming from the kitchen.

Sherlock frowned suddenly. "Where's my skull?" He asked.

"Mrs Hudson's got it. I thought it might alarm some of the girls."

"Why? At least two of them seemed positively macabre. And it doesn't alarm Scarlet."

"Scarlet knows you and has grown up around... things like your skull. Besides, what children say is often a world away from what they actually think and feel, Sherlock. Surely you've lived with Scarlet long enough to have worked that out!" John told him.

Sherlock frowned at him. "Scarlet doesn't lie, John. She has a very honest character." He told him.

John rolled his eyes.

After a moment, Sherlock looked at John. "Is there anything else that might, hypothetically speaking, alarm a seven year old girl."

"Yeah, probably lots of things; copious blood, accidents, being by themselves too long..." He suddenly stopped rambling and fixed Sherlock with a stare. "Why do you ask?"

The scream from the kitchen was quite unlike the previous screams of the day and it didn't quite mask the sound of breaking glass. John was in the kitchen instantly and Sherlock was not far behind him.

Miscellaneous child No2 was stood surrounded by broken glass and liquid, and eyeballs could be seen rolling around the kitchen floor. The other three guests all had their feet up on their chairs and were looking either disgusted or terrified. The hand-holders were clinging onto each other. Somewhat amazingly, they were all completely silent now.

"They're just eyeballs." Scarlet pointed out.

"OK, everyone into the sitting-room, please!" Said John. "Everybody mind the glass!" He started picking them up and pushing them gently towards the front room.

"Were they real?" One of the girls asked.

"Probably." Said Scarlet.

"No, don't be silly!" John said, coming back in with platefuls of food that he put on the coffee table. "Uncle Sherlock works at a theatre; he sometimes comes home with pretend things like that!"

"I thought he was a detective." One of them said.

John stood still. "He is. He... has two jobs. Finish eating in here; I'll go and sweep up the glass."

In the kitchen, Sherlock had picked up most of the eyeballs and put them in a mug.

"It's OK," he told John, "I think I can still use these."

John stared at him a moment. "Good. Well that's a relief."

Sherlock caught something in his tone and looked at him. "Problem?" He asked.

John's knuckles tightened on the dustpan he was holding. He took a moment to reply. "I thought you weren't going to bring body parts into the house any more. I keep reminding you, I've put it on the list, and you keep doing it."

"They aren't body parts!" Sherlock protested. "They're sheep's eyes. I got them from the butcher. Really, it's no worse than having lamb chops in the fridge. Besides, you've moved the list, I can't see it."

"Yeah, well I didn't want a parent to come in here and find among our dos and don'ts 'Don't keep body parts in the fridge' and 'do ensure all potential murders stay outside the building.' Besides, you know what's on the list and you just ignore it."

Sherlock looked at him nervously. "Are you going to move out again?" He asked quietly.

John sighed and thought of and the eleven million times Scarlet had asked him if Sherlock would come to her party even though he kept trying to put her off the idea, and the look on her face when she realised he had come home just in time. "No. No, I just wish... I just wish you'd make an effort. That's all."

"I do make an effort!" Sherlock told him. "I got _sheep's_ eyes!"

John smiled. "Yeah. I suppose every seventh birthday party is really incomplete without a jar full of sheep's eyes."

Sherlock smiled back looking relieved.

"You missed one!" Scarlet had appeared and held up a eyeball. "It had gone under the armchair."

"Thank you." Said Sherlock, holding the mug out to her for her to drop it in. She disappeared back out to her friends where the sounds of happy children were starting to reassert themselves.

"Scarlet doesn't mind." Sherlock pointed out to John.

"Yeah, well, Scarlet is _Scarlet_ isn't she." He answered.

* * *

**Next up we're going to have something that's popped into my head based on the following...**

_**sometimes she acted a little childish, as in, her mannerisms weren't as mature as a thirteen year old should be. Sure, some thirteen year olds act like total dorks, **_**- TogsTwilightFan (Not an actual prompt there but it did make me think 'Oops, I've made Scarlet into a total dweeb, haven't I?')**

**Along with...**

_**And you could focus on the fact that she doesn't have a mother, she has Sherlock instead, so what does she do when she needs a bra or something.**_** - TogsTwilightFan**

**And a bit of...**

_**I would like to see her going to him with some typical young woman situation, 1st crush, 1st period, scary exam etc.-**_** Mrs Winny**


	20. Growing pains

**Once again, thank you so much for all of the reviews and the support! Sorry for the delay with this one; I've been tired and slightly down and everything I wrote came out far to angsty.**

**Quick note: although Scarlet's age is flitting around all over the place, all of the stories take place in 2010 or thereabouts. Most of the time this won't matter, but rather than trying to invest time and energy on working out what sort of technology and entertainment might exist in 10, 15 or 20 years time, I've gone for using the stuff that's around now. **

**

* * *

**_Thirteen_

Sherlock lay on the sofa idly scratching away at the violin. All things considered, he thought, this week had gone fairly well. John was at a medical conference in Cardiff and he had trusted him to take care of Scarlet. Despite the drama that had gone on a mere fortnight ago, John still trusted him. It's true that John looked like he needed to fight every protective instinct in his body to do that, but he had gone to Cardiff and Scarlet was fine.

His phone rang. It was John's call-tone which surprised him; he'd been checking in regularly but it was the middle of the school day so there'd be nothing to tell him now.

He didn't bother with niceties, but answered with "Conference going well?"

"Yeah, Sherlock the school have just called; can you go down there?"

"What, why? Why are they calling you? You're in Cardiff!"

"Yes, but they don't know that, and they need someone to pick up Scarlet because she's been in a fight." John told him.

Sherlock sat up. "_Scarlet_? In a _fight_?"

"Yes, look can you please go down there, Sherlock? Please?"

Sherlock caught the slightly anguished tone in John's voice. "Yes, of course."

"Thanks, I'll let them know you're on your way. And, Sherlock?"

"Mm?"

"Can you please try and find out what the hell's going on with her?"

"Of course; it is what I do for a living after all."

oOo

He was buzzed into the school and the receptionist appeared to be expecting him.

"Scarlet's in the nurse's office, but the Head wants to have a quick word with you first." She told him

Sherlock vaguely remembered Mrs Jones from the Art Show. He hadn't really concentrated on her then, but he now put her down now as a spinster who enjoyed gardening and had at least three cats. She was beaming at him but he refused to smile back; after all, this woman had impugned Scarlet's character and he would need to point out how wrong she was.

"Mr Holmes, thank you for coming in. I just wanted a quick word before you saw Scarlet." She told him. "It's just; it is the school rule for fighting to exclude the child in question for a day for a first offence. I know this is out of Scarlet's character; she is a really lovely girl, but I can't make exceptions because it makes life very difficult."

Sherlock found he was softening towards her. "Are you sure this was Scarlet's fault?" he asked her. "Are you sure the other child involved isn't lying?"

"She pushed Serene Jones down a flight of steps in front of three other children and two prefects." Mrs Jones said almost apologetically. "I understand that there had been an argument before hand but we encourage our students to work things out calmly. I can't condone physical violence."

Sherlock considered discussing reports on verbal violence and how the effects could be as harmful as physical violence but he decided that this wasn't the time. "Can I see her now?"

"Yes of course." Mrs Jones said. "I just wanted to make it clear to you… I wanted you to know that if there is anything going on with Scarlet that we can help with, we'll give you all the support we can."

Sherlock frowned, wondering what things she might think were going on, but he decided not to pursue that either at that moment. He desperately wanted to see Scarlet.

He was accompanied to the nurse's office which was conveniently just by reception. Scarlet was sat on a chair, looking red eyed and sullen. She didn't say anything when he arrived, she just stood up and picked up her schoolbag.

He wasn't sure what to say either so he just set off out of the school with her following him.

When they were clear of the building he looked at her. "What happened?" he asked her.

"Nothing." She replied.

He found himself annoyed with her. "Scarlet, it wasn't 'nothing' you pushed another student down a flight of stairs; that's not 'nothing'!"

"It wasn't a flight of stairs; it was three stairs and she only have to go to hospital because she landed badly!" Scarlet snapped at him.

"She had to go to hospital?" Sherlock echoed, shocked and alarmed.

"I knew you'd take their side!" Scarlet shouted, before marching off, quickly.

He sped up to keep up with her.

"I'm not taking their side." He told her rationally. "I asked you what had happened but you won't give me your side."

"It doesn't matter." She said, quickening her pace once more.

"It does matter, Scarlet; I want to know what happened."

"It doesn't matter!" she said again. She was crying now and she wiped her eyes on her sleeve.

"Scarlet, slow down!" he said to her, catching hold of her shoulder and trying to get her to stop.

"Don't touch me!" she screamed at him. "Leave me alone! You're not even my real Dad! Don't you dare touch me!"

Sherlock let go instantly. She had at least stopped but she was crying almost hysterically and he was deeply alarmed.

"Scarlet, please calm down." He said to her quietly. "I just want to know if I can help."

"You can't." she answered sounding desperate. "No one can."

"OK." He said to her calmly. "OK, let's go home."

They walked along in silence, Sherlock deep in thought and Scarlet sobbing quietly, but at least they were walking at a fairly calm pace now.

Inside the house Scarlet ran the first flight of stairs and turned to head up the second flight too, but Sherlock stopped her.

"Wait, Scarlet. Before you go upstairs, I just need you to tell me what you argued with Serene about." He was quite pleased with himself for that. It's true the exact wording had taken him the whole trip home to come up with, but it was clear and specific without being commanding and aggressive and it didn't focus on the fight. He waited to see if it would work.

Scarlet did indeed stop. She slowly turned round and sat down on the staircase.

"I'm not normal." She said to him, not meeting his eye. "I'm not like all the other girls and I never will be."

Sherlock frowned. "And Serene told you that you _are_ normal?" he asked, confused.

"No, Sherlock!" she said impatiently. "Serene told me I wasn't normal and she and the others all laughed at me and I got annoyed and pushed her down the step. It was pointless really because she's right and I'm wrong; I'm not normal." She got up again and turned to go up to her room.

"No, wait!" Sherlock said. "Before you go; I want to know exactly how you are not normal."

She turned on him with furious eyes. "OK, I'll tell you, Sherlock. I'm not normal because I wear the wrong clothes; I don't like the right music, I don't watch the right films, I don't know which Doctor Who I want to get off with most, partly because I think the whole idea of getting off with anyone is gross because why would I want someone else's spit in my mouth. I don't know who should win x-factor because I keep forgetting to watch it and I don't know who Katie Price is sleeping with or isn't' sleeping with or whether I should like her or not this week. My hair is stupid and brown and that's the least of my problems because what's worse is that I have no breasts at all and only wear a bra on days when we have Sports because everyone else does. And everyone else has started their periods and I haven't and Serene thinks that's really, really funny and that I'm a huge baby and she's right; I'm a stupid baby and I'm NOT NORMAL!" She ended at a shout before turning and storming up the stairs and into her room, slamming the door after her.

Sherlock let her go. He leant back against the wall for a moment finding his heart was racing slightly. He felt completely and utterly out of his depth.

Realising he couldn't leave her sobbing in her bedroom all night, he went into the kitchen to form a plan. He sat down at the kitchen table and pulled out his phone. John answered him quickly; he was clearly waiting for an update.

"Well? Did you get her? What's gone on?" he asked.

"Of course I got her, they were required to send her home because of the physical violence. She's allowed back on Monday."

"Monday? Physical violence?" John gibbered.

"Yes of course physical violence, what part of 'in a fight' did you not understand? She pushed Serene down the stairs. Look I need to ask you a question." Sherlock told him impatiently.

"Wait a minute, Sherlock; she pushed Serene down the stairs? Was she hurt?"

"I don't know, they took her to hospital but they didn't give me a report, but look..."

"Hospital?" John said, in a high pitched squeak.

"John, would you please focus a minute. I need to ask you a question."

"Sherlock; my daughter has put another child in hospital. I think that needs addressing; don't you?"

"Yes, and I'm addressing it." Sherlock told him calmly. "The route of the problem is that Serene was saying some unpleasant things to Scarlet, Scarlet became distressed and... the situation got out of hand."

John was silent for a moment. "She shouldn't have pushed her down the stairs, Sherlock."

"Oh it was only a few stairs. Look I need the answer to a medical question. At what age does a girl start menstruating on average?"

John's entire thought process spilled out in one torrent of confusion and panic. "Um, 12 to 14 usually, why, who's... Oh my God, Scarlet... Oh no! I'm coming home!"

"NO! John, you don't need to come home."

"Look, everything she needs is in the cupboard under the sink. Just let her know and... I don't know... is she OK?"

"Yes! Well, no she's not but that isn't the problem. What I wanted to know was whether I should take a hypothetical thirteen year old to casualty because she hasn't started her periods yet."

There was a pause. "No, Sherlock. Please don't do that." John told him keeping his voice very level.

"So there's nothing that can be done about it?"

"No. It'll happen when it happens. It could be years yet, or it could be tomorrow."

"Well that seems a bit... unfair." Sherlock complained.

"That's life, I'm afraid. Look, I'll get on the train tonight, I'll talk to her when I get home."

"No, John, there's no need for you to do that. I can sort this; will you please just trust me?"

There was another pause. "Yes. OK. Sorry, Sherlock, it's just it's Scarlet. Whenever I think of her upset I get a bit..."

"Confused, irrational and mildly nauseous?" Sherlock finished for him.

"Yes." John said.

"Good. I thought I was coming down with something." Sherlock told him.

John snorted. "OK. Well I'll see you tomorrow anyway."

Sherlock hung up and thought for a moment. He understood what it felt like to not fit in. He shuddered remembering his own schooldays. He had been utterly miserable for years and years; he didn't want that for Scarlet. He tried to think logically. He needed a plan.

oOo

Ten minutes later he knocked on Scarlet's door.

"Go away!" she called out to him.

"No, it's going to be OK, Scarlet; I have a plan!"

She slowly opened the door. "What plan?"

"Look!" He said, waving a notepad at her. "I've made a list of all the things that the other girls seem to have a problem with, and most of them are things we can fix!"

"What?" Scarlet looked completely confused.

"OK, leaving aside the periods and breasts thing, which your Dad says will just happen when they happen, everything that the others have a problem with is something we can research and understand."

She stepped back from him. "Oh god, you called my Dad." She said softly.

"Yes but only about the medical stuff." He watched her, worried, as she seemed to deflate and go and sit on her bed. "Scarlet, please. Let's put that aside for now. Let's work through all the stuff on the list, one by one, and then when you go back to school on Monday if any of these things come up you'll have all the answers you need!"

She looked at him. She looked tired, but there was a glimmer of hope on her face.

"You'll help me?" She asked.

"I'd like to try anyway." He told her.

She smiled and nodded at him.

"OK." He said. "Let's go downstairs and start work."

oOo

"OK, lets start at the beginning." He said to her. "Clothes. What's wrong with your clothes? I always think you look very striking when you go out."

"I think 'striking' might be part of the problem." She told him. "I think they'd prefer it if I looked like I was with them and part of the group rather than looking... 'striking'."

"Well, where do they buy their clothes?" He asked.

"I'm not sure." She told him. "I think H&M and Pineapple are popular but I don't shop there so I don't know."

"Where do you shop?"

"I don't shop. Dad shops and I follow him around. He stays in Marks and Spencer's and if I'm really lucky he'll venture into Debenhams and I might sneak something vaguely interesting in the basket but I'm not sure I want to suggest shopping with him again; I'm not sure my wardrobe could stand another cable-knit aran Jumper and another pair of cords. I supplement the basics with stuff from charity shops."

"Could you go without him?"

"I could, but then the money's a problem."

"Really? Won't he just give you what you need?"

"To be honest I've never asked." She admitted. "I've mostly assumed 'no'."

Sherlock was surprised. His assumption had always been that John would give Scarlet anything. Thinking back, however, he could pinpoint several occasions where he had simply refused. He wondered why he would do that when he clearly loved her so much.

"OK, well, lets broach the subject when he gets home. It's not an unreasonable request." He said to her.

"Really? "Hi Dad! I've just been excluded from school for putting one of my friends in hospital; can I have some money to go shopping?" How do you think that conversation will go?" She asked him.

He thought about it. "Hm, well maybe we need to pace ourselves with that. But there is a solution," he said determinedly, "let's not lose sight of that. Right; music. I know about music so this one should be easy. Who do you like? We'll start there."

"Er, well it depends on what mood I'm in. I like Johnny Cash though, and the Kinks and quite a lot of stuff from the sixties."

"Oh the Kinks are great! And Johnny Cash was a huge seller in his time!" Sherlock was obviously pleased.

"Yes but the others are more interested in more modern stuff. The preference is for people who aren't dead." Scarlet pointed out.

Sherlock could understand the logic in this. "OK, well who do they like?"

"I don't know." She said. "They say band names and I just nod and smile. None of it goes in."

"OK, well, let's look on line and see what we can find."

Sherlock turned his computer on. Scarlet came and sat behind him. A quick search found the top 40. They scrolled through the list.

"Oh, I've heard of him!" said Scarlet, pointing out Eminem.

A couple of clicks brought up a play list. Sherlock selected a song randomly. They listened for a few moments before Sherlock blushed and turned it off.

"That's not age appropriate." He told Scarlet.

"Yes but the point is I'm supposed to try to be more grown up."

Sherlock looked at her and considered this for a moment. Then he thought of the fiasco at the crime scene. "Yes but not on my shift." He finally told her. "Let's find something that your Dad wouldn't disapprove of."

"That might take forever." She pointed out.

He smiled, but still went back to the start and tried again.

"The Script." He said. "Do they sound interesting?"

She shrugged so he clicked away and started playing one of their songs. Again, they listened for a while. He looked at her expectantly.

"Well? What do you think?" He said.

She pulled a face. "I don't know; it's a bit... bland?"

"What about this one. His name's a bit off-putting but it's at number one so it can't be too bad." He clicked again on Tinie Tempah. They listened again.

"That one's OK." She said. "I quite like the lyrics. I think maybe I'd have to hear it a few more times."

He looked at her and thought some more. "Maybe this isn't the best way." He said. "It's possible that you just need lots of exposure to music and something will eventually stand out for you. And in the meantime at least you'll have heard the songs the others are talking about. You have a radio in your room right?"

"Yes, it's set to Classic FM at the moment."

"Oh well there's some good stuff on there!" Sherlock said excited. "And if you like that sort of music why don't I get us some tickets for some of the proms?"

"I'd like that." She said, smiling at him.

"Live music's amazing." He told her. "Well, that's music sorted at any rate." He put a tick against it. "Right," he said, "films. What films have you missed."

"Well, they all went to see Eclipse together but I forgot I was supposed to be going and missed it."

"How did you forget?"

"I was painting and I just forgot." She told him. "I think I just lost track of time."

"Well, it happens." He said to her. "We should get you a Blackberry so we can set reminders."

"Dad says I can't have a good phone until I can keep a cheap one for a full year without breaking or losing it." She told him.

"How long do you have to go?" He asked.

"Eleven months and two weeks. My last one fell in the loo."

He stared at her, not wanting to ask. "OK, well, maybe you could keep reminders on my phone and I could remind you?" he suggested.

"You'd do that?" She asked him.

"Of course!"

They both sat quietly for a moment and both simultaneous realised that that plan simply wasn't going to work. They both assumed that they'd be the one who forgot to tell the other.

"Dad's organised." She said. "How does he do it?"

He shook his head. "I have no idea." Sherlock admitted. "Should I write on the list; 'ask Dad about organising self'?"

"Good idea." She agreed.

"X-factor is similarly sorted; we can set reminders on the TV or even set it to record!" He sounded triumphant. "Right. Doctor Who. Let's look at our 'getting off with' options." A few clicks brought up a number of images. "OK, what do you think?"

He turned the computer screen round so that that she could look through. She did for a while before turning back to him.

"I'm not sure what I'm supposed to be looking for." She admitted.

"Well, I imagine that the opinions of the other girls are based primarily on which one of them is most aesthetically pleasing."

She looked again. "I'm not sure there's much between them." She said. "And to be honest, the idea of kissing any of them is fairly repellent."

He looked at her and for a moment feeling charmed by her innocence. "OK." He told her. "I think maybe we should just assume that at some point there will be someone who you do want to kiss and it will all make much more sense at that point."

"What if I never do?" She asked him quietly.

"You will." He said firmly. "It's not a race, Scarlet."

"OK, well, what if I do someday but all of this stuff doesn't work and he also thinks I'm a childish disorganised mess with no sense of what's going on right now because I'm always thinking of random stuff that just floats through my head?" She didn't sound panicked at the idea, just calmly accepting this as a very real possibility.

Sherlock looked at her. He suddenly realised what the answer was. "You know, Scarlet, I think we've taken the wrong tack on this entirely." He told her. "There's nothing about you that needs to change and you certainly don't have to force yourself to like things that the others like just because the others like them. You don't have to force yourself to like a person because someone thinks you ought to, and you definitely don't have to force yourself to... get off with someone just because someone says you ought to. It may be that someone comes along at some point and you like them and they're just not interested in you. In fact it's likely to happen; it happens to most people sooner or later, but that person won't like you more because you try to change the essence of who you are for them. And the thing that is going to make the most difference to whether you're happy or not is whether you like you. If you can honestly stand up at the end of your life and say "well, I was absolutely true to myself, and I liked the person I was" then that's going to make the biggest difference to what everyone else thinks of you."

She thought for a moment or two about all of this.

"Isn't that arrogance?" She finally asked.

He smiled. "You say that like it's a bad thing. It's not. Well, not always; I think it sometimes depends on how you express it, and I think your Dad is a better guide to that than I am. Anyway; I personally think that you're brilliant, and I'm not your 'real Dad' so I don't _ have _ to say that. I hope that you start thinking so too because you have nothing to be ashamed of and there's nothing about you that you need to change right now."

She smiled. "Thank you, Sherlock." She said. She hugged him and he hugged her back.

"Right," he said, "you haven't had lunch yet. I'll cook something."

"I'll help." She said to him. "I'll be back in a second." She ran upstairs. A second later she called down to him with a note of panic. "Sherlock! I need to... I have to go to the shops for something!"

He called back calmly to her. "Everything you need is in the cupboard under the sink!"

* * *

**Right, next up will be this one...**

_**I envisaged Scarlet going to school and talking about her Dad and her other 'Dad' - and then Sherlock insisting on accompanying John to a parents evening to ensure Scarlet is being properly taught**_** – Richefic**

_**a parent/teacher evening? *grins* I'm sure any homework that Sherlock...helped with would be very interesting.**_** - SpaceAnJL**


	21. Parent's Evening

_**I've republished the previous chapter to get rid of some of the more cringe worthy mistakes. Sorry about that; I shouldn't publish when I'm tired. **_

_**

* * *

**Four_

John checked his watch and got up. "Right, I'd better be off then." He said.

"Now?" Sherlock asked. "OK then." He got up too and reached for his coat.

"Wait a minute," said John, "where are you going?"

Sherlock looked at him like he was insane. "To the parent's evening of course! Why; where are you going?"

"No, no, no, Sherlock." John said shaking his head firmly. "_I'm _going to the parents evening and _you're_ babysitting Scarlet."

Sherlock looked at him, replying. "No, no, no, John. _Mrs Hudson_ is babysitting and _we're_ going to the parents evening. Turnip's already downstairs with her."

John looked around the room for a moment and for the first time noticed the lack of said child. He felt mildly embarrassed but Sherlock was still looking at him expectantly so he covered it.

"The thing is, Sherlock," he told him, "I'm Scarlet's parent, and you aren't. So I'm going, and you're not."

"Don't be silly John, of course I'm a parent. I'm her step-father." Sherlock told him. The word 'idiot' was present but unspoken.

"No you're not." John said. "A step-parent is someone who is married to a birth or adoptive parent."

"What about long-term partners?" Sherlock asked.

"Well, yes, in some circumstances..." John started.

"Well there you are then. I believe I qualify." Sherlock told him triumphantly.

"No you don't." John said quickly. "It implies a sexual relationship which we, most definitely, don't have."

"Well that's patently ridiculous." Sherlock said. "The word is used to describe a relationship between a child and an adult who is a significant part of his or her life. What happens between that adult and any other adult should be completely separate!"

John glared at him. In many ways he couldn't fault the logic. In many ways Scarlet was probably as close to Sherlock as many children were close to their step-parents. She probably couldn't understand the distinction either. He looked at his watch again.

"Fine. Let's go then."

Sherlock followed him silently onto the street and down the road toward the school. He glanced at John who was scowling.

"You're cross with me, aren't you?"

"No." John said. He was but he knew he probably shouldn't be.

"You have to learn to share her, John." Sherlock said, mildly. "You can't keep her in a box!" He raised his eyebrows at him.

John couldn't help but smile. "Cheeky sod." He said to him quietly. "But look, Sherlock, it's fine if you want to come and listen but I only have ten minutes so could you please let me ask all the questions I want to?"

"Fine." Said Sherlock. "That's absolutely fine."

oOo

They waited outside Miss Streeter's classroom. There was another set of parents there who were waiting patiently in the two provided chairs. John noticed the mother giving them sidelong looks of curiosity. He suddenly felt very defensive of Sherlock.

"Look, Sherlock, there's Scarlet's picture of her family." He said, pointing it out. "I think she's got you captured perfectly!"

Sherlock looked. John came and stood close to him, making a point of ignoring the eyebrows he knew were raised behind them.

The other parents were called in.

"I hope that we'll still get our full ten minutes!" Sherlock said loudly.

"Shh, of course we will." John told him. "Just settle down."

They sat on the vacated chairs and waited in silence. After what seemed like an eternity of listening to Sherlock's foot tapping impatiently on the floor the other parents were shown out of the classroom. John smiled at them and felt mildly ashamed of himself when they both smiled and said "hello" back.

Miss Streeter looked at them. "I'm sorry to keep you waiting, Doctor Watson, no matter how often we say that we need more than ten minutes each, we're told that we can only have ten minutes each."

"I understand that completely," John said, "I remember the same thing happening in general practise."

"Of course." She said. She waved them towards a small table with some undersized chairs at it. Sherlock sat down and his knees came up almost to his chin. John realised he should probably introduce him.

"This is Sherlock." He told Miss Streeter.

"I'm Turnip... Scarlet's step-father." Sherlock told her, confidently. John didn't correct him.

"Oh, Congratulations!" Miss Streeter said warmly. "Scarlet didn't mention it! I'll dig out a 'change in family details' form for you."

"Oh, no, we're not... married." John told her quickly.

She frowned for a second but rallied. "It doesn't matter; any adult who's significant in the Scarlet's life can go on the form."

"See." Sherlock told John.

"Perhaps we should move on to Scarlet." John suggested.

"Yes," agreed Sherlock, "I'm particularly interested to see how you are coping with Scarlet's special abilities."

Miss Streeter looked blankly at him. "Special..."

"Yes, you must have noticed." Sherlock told her. "She's clearly gifted."

"Sherlock..." John hissed at him.

"Er, could you perhaps be specific about her abilities?" Miss Streeter asked.

Sherlock sighed. "Well she knows most of her letters already." He said to her. "And she can count to twenty reliably. She's clearly a very bright child and I don't want her to be ignored because you're giving your attention to the children who need more help."

John put his head in his hands.

Miss Streeter rallied and brought out an early years assessment form. "OK, well if we look here, we can see the sorts of things children of Scarlet's age might be able to do. So we can see here that this is the sort of ability Scarlet has now. If we follow the table along we can see the sorts of things we aim for her to be able to do by the end of the year and I think Scarlet's well on track to achieve these things."

John looked at the list but Sherlock quickly took it from him to examine it himself.

"What we want to see at this age is all the children moving along within their own framework, and Scarlet seems willing and interested to learn most of the time." Miss Streeter said and smiled at them both.

John opened his mouth to speak but Sherlock cut him off.

"Well what can we do to help her achieve... more?" He asked.

Miss Streeter smiled at him. "All the research indicates that at the moment the most essential thing to do at this stage is to read to your child regularly."

Sherlock sat up proudly. "I read to Scarlet _every day_!" He told her.

She smiled again. "Well in that case I'm sure she'll have caught up with the others in no time."

"What?" Sherlock said shocked. "Are you implying that she's behind?"

"No, no." Miss Streeter responded. "Like I say, the children work within their own framework."

"And her framework is behind the other children's?" He asked quickly.

"I'm not sure it's that helpful to be comparative at this stage." She responded.

"But..." Sherlock started.

"Sherlock!" John said firmly to him. "If you don't shut-up I'm going to make you sit in the Quiet Corner."

Sherlock looked at him, slightly ashamed. "I'm sorry, John. Was there something you wanted to ask about?" he asked him.

"Thank you." John turned to Miss Streeter. "Is she getting on OK with the other children?"

"Oh yes." Miss Streeter replied. "She seems very close to one or two of the other girls, but she's never alone. She's very popular and she does like looking after the others too if they're hurt or upset."

"And does she seem happy here?" Asked John. "She never tells me anything about school. Or she does but it always involves princesses and unicorns. Has she settled in OK?"

Miss Streeter laughed. "Yes, she does have a marvellous imagination." She agreed. "She loves storytelling and keeps us entertained for hours. She seems very happy here; I haven't noticed her ever looking concerned or upset. "

"And is she well behaved?" John asked.

"Oh yes." Miss Streeter said with warmth. "She's a delightful child."

"Thank you." Said John. He smiled at her and looked very relieved.

"Well, is there anything else you want to know?" She asked them, looking slightly nervously at Sherlock.

"No thank you. That's fine." John told her.

"OK, then what it would be helpful for you to work with her on is the counting; not just reciting the numbers but working out how to identify how many things there are in front of her. We're going to start on comparisons, such as bigger, smaller, more, less, that sort of thing so if you could familiarise her with that language that would be good. I've also got some worksheets on phonics for you; you don't need to work through them all at once, it's just so you know what she might be talking about if she comes out with things about letter sounds." She handed them across.

Once again, Sherlock took them from John.

"OK, thank you." Said John getting up. Sherlock didn't say anything but followed. They walked in silence along the street for a while, Sherlock looking moody and sullen and John with a big beaming smile on his face.

"You know, I'm not sure that Turnip's teacher is entirely competent." Sherlock said to him. "Perhaps we should think of sending her to private school."

"No, that's not going to happen, Sherlock." John told him firmly.

"If it's about the money, I can pay." Sherlock pressed him.

"It's not, Sherlock. She's fine where she is; she's _happy_ where she is!"

"But she's not being pushed." Sherlock insisted.

"She's four, Sherlock, I'm not convinced it's good to push them too much at that age."

"But she doesn't recognise Turnip's many talents." Sherlock said.

John stopped and grabbed Sherlock by the arm so that he stopped too. "What are you talking about? She recognised the following talents about Scarlet; she has a vivid imagination, she wants to entertain others, she gets on with the others, she wants to care for others and she's well behaved. Aren't those talents good enough for the great Sherlock Holmes?"

Sherlock was surprised to see John looking upset. He thought about things for a minute. "Of course they are." He finally said. "Sorry. I just didn't... think of things that way."

They walked home. Mrs Hudson greeted them at the door of her flat.

"Well? How did it go?" She asked them.

"Brilliantly!" Sherlock said, picking up Scarlet who'd run to him instantly. "Turnip's a delightful child!"

"Well we knew that, didn't we." She replied, smiling at her fondly.

"Well yes," Sherlock replied, "but it's always nice when someone else remembers to tell you that."

John smiled at him. "Come on then, Step-Dad. It's past someone's bedtime."

* * *

**Next up there will either be this one...**

_**How about, in a few years time, John meets another girl, and starts dating again, and Scarlet and Sherlock are united in their mutual dislike towards said girl.**_** – TogsTwilightFan**

**Or a sneaky one just from me simply called '**_**bathtime**_**'.**

**These prompts aren't being written in any order other than whichever one I can come up with a story for first.**


	22. How to help?

**I did my own prompt for this one, and it started off as half a paragraph called 'bathtime'. It grew into this.**

**

* * *

**_Three years, Eight months. They've been living in Baker Street for six weeks._

Sherlock wandered slowly through Regent's Park in the general direction of his flat. He found he didn't want to hurry. In fact, rather than go straight back to the flat he sat down on an empty bench and stared at a rose bush for while. The hacking cough he'd been fighting all the way home suddenly took over and he coughed until his bones ached. He finished with a huge sneeze.

He started going through his pockets looking for a packet of tissues. Unfortunately he only managed to find his phone, keys, a warrant card (Lestrade had been particularly annoying today) and for some inexplicable reason, a small plastic dog. He cursed quietly.

A large linen handkerchief was suddenly wafted in front of him. Sherlock scowled for a moment but realising he had no choice; he took it and blew his nose noisily.

Mycroft sat down beside him.

"Trouble in paradise, Brother dear?" He asked him.

"Everything's fine." Sherlock answered him quickly. "Do you want this back?" He asked, holding out the handkerchief.

"Laundered." Mycroft told him.

Sherlock grunted and shoved it into his pocket.

"I imagine," Mycroft told him, "that the realities of living with a child under four years old are quite different from the fantasies formed when merely visiting her regularly."

Sherlock grunted again. "Everything's fine." He repeated.

Mycroft gave him a look that took in every fibre of his being.

"Clearly." He said.

Despite being used to such looks Sherlock shifted uncomfortably under the scrutiny.

"Everything's..." He started

"Fine?" Mycroft finished for him.

Sherlock looked away for a little while. "Most things are mostly fine." He said finally. "Obviously compromises have to be made. I wouldn't expect you to understand, Mycroft. You've never opened your home to someone else and you have little, if any, experience of this."

Mycroft pulled a face that might have been interpreted as either a smile or a sneer. "Fine." He said. "Why don't you educate me then? What sort of compromises have you had to make?"

Sherlock sighed. "Well," he said, "a random example might be that I can't spend hours in the bathroom any more. If Scarlet needs to use the toilet it has to be instant. That wouldn't be a problem if it wasn't for John having a strange fixation with her not seeing me naked. I have no idea why my body might be so disturbing to a three year old but there you go. All baths are now taken under the constant threat of having to vacate at a moment's notice."

Mycroft frowned at him. "Why don't you just ask her to go before you get in?" He asked.

There was a distinct look of the light dawning over Sherlock's face. He didn't acknowledge this though.

"All right," he said, "there's also the fridge."

"The fridge?"

"Yes. John's become strangely territorial about the fridge. He had indicated to me before they moved in that at some point in the future he'd like me to reduce the amount of body parts being temporarily stored in the fridge. I hadn't realised this meant all body parts and with immediate effect. In addition, the fridge is now full of things I'm not allowed to eat! I happened to eat a chocolate cake that happened to be in the fridge and the resulting affect was similar to if I'd have invaded Poland!"

"Really?" Mycroft asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Really!" Sherlock answered. "Apparently the cake was for all of us to share after Turnip's play at nursery. How was I supposed to know that? I can't read minds!"

"Perhaps John rather thinks you can." Mycroft pointed out.

"No! He understands that it's only the important stuff that I bother with." Sherlock replied.

"Well, maybe it's a matter of perspective." Mycroft told him. Sherlock didn't speak but he seemed to be listening so he went on. "Perhaps the level of important of chocolate cake is quite different when you're a three year old. Perhaps something that to you is just a compound of flour, eggs, butter, sugar and cocoa powder, to her represents an award for an achievement, it's a symbol of her father's pride for her, and, knowing John's concern for her general health, it's also a rare and delicious treat.

Sherlock sat silently for a while, thinking about this. "Well, maybe some of this would become more obvious to me if he'd just let me help!" he said, crossly.

Mycroft looked at him. "Help?" He asked.

It was the slightest nudge needed to open the floodgates. Sherlock turned round on the bench to face him, animated.

"Yes, help! The whole point was so that I could help with her but whenever I try he just gets cross with me. Turnip was crying the other day because John had put her on the naughty step for hitting him, so I helped by stopping her crying, but it was wrong."

"And how did you achieve this?" Mycroft asked him.

"I gave her a chocolate biscuit." He responded.

"Right," said Mycroft, "so while John was quite reasonably disciplining his child for a transgression, you were rewarding her with a chocolate biscuit?"

"No, no that's not how it was! Obviously I don't think she should hit John!" Sherlock replied crossly.

"Obvious to whom? You, John or Scarlet?"

Sherlock was silent for a moment before dismissing this. "It's not just that! It's now too. Turnip's a germy little beast and we've all got this cold. All of us, only with her it's so much worse and she's spent the last three nights sleeping in John's bed crying from pain from an ear infection while he can think of nothing but how hot she is and when she last had Calpol or Ibuprofen and how much she's had to eat or drink which is apparently never enough to make him happy. He's always been obsessive about that; in the past he'd fuss around me like a mother hen, especially when I was ill but now he's completely and utterly focused on the Turnip. It's exhausting him! He's ill too and he hasn't given himself the time to recover because he doesn't trust me to give her a mouthful of Calpol every now and then."

Mycroft digested all of this for a moment. "So, how much of this is concern for John and how much is jealousy?" He asked.

"Jealousy?" Sherlock echoed. "Don't be ridiculous, it's _all_ concern for John!"

"So we'll say about sixty percent concern and forty percent jealousy..."

"Seventy-five, twenty-five." Sherlock snapped back.

"Fine, well leaving aside the twenty-five that even you know is ridiculous, let's look at the seventy-five. John is ill, you want to help him with his daughter who, through no fault of her own, is being particularly demanding of his attention right now, but he won't let you."

"Because he's an idiot." Sherlock put in.

"No, no I don't think so." Mycroft told him calmly and without a hint of judgement. "I think it's because he's a father, Sherlock. From my observations I've noticed that many parents can act somewhat irrationally when their children are ill. In this particular case, John lost the only other person in the world he truly loved not so very long ago. Despite his many strengths and despite his competency in the world of medicine, he couldn't do anything to prevent that. I should imagine that his protective instincts with young Scarlet are in overdrive and they will be for some time. I should imagine that it would be particularly difficult for him to trust her health to anyone else at all, let alone someone with a history of self medicating, who takes the 'maximum dose' instructions as a mere guideline, and who regularly loses track of the time."

He looked back at Sherlock. During this speech his chin had sunk to rest on his chest and his face was mostly covered behind his upturned coat collar. He was frowning with concentration though, and his eyes were blazing. Mycroft got the impression that he'd been heard. He waited, wondering whether Sherlock would lower himself enough to ask for help. He wondered, underneath the spleen and the vitriol, just how important this was to him. He wondered if he'd prefer to walk away John and Scarlet; he could legitimise the action quite easily. He wondered, in short, what his brother was really made of.

The answer came. "So, what do I do if he won't let me help with Scarlet?"

Mycroft smiled. He'd suspected as much. "Help with John, of course." He stood up and picked up his umbrella.

"Yes but how?" Sherlock persisted.

"Oh I'm sure you'll think of something. You are a genius after all." He started walking away.

"Yes, but not with this stuff!" Sherlock called after him, panicked.

Mycroft just smiled as he walked away.

oOo

Back at the flat he went into the living room to find Scarlet looking happier and healthier than she had for a while. She was playing with a puzzle while some children's TV programme was playing. John, however, was lying prone on the sofa looking pale and miserable. Somewhat alarmingly he'd taken the precaution of getting the sick-bucket out of the broom cupboard and had positioned it by the sofa.

"God, you look terrible." Sherlock said.

"Thanks." John replied with a wan smile. "I'm fine. I just felt a bit queasy that's all."

Sherlock nodded. "Well I'm not surprised." He said. "You've had nothing to eat and very little sleep in twenty-four hours. I'll make you some toast."

"I can do it." John replied from the sofa, groaning slightly as he tried to get up.

"Don't be an idiot." Sherlock told him. "I can make toast. When did you last have paracetamol?"

"I can't remember."

"Well, when you've eaten something you can have some."

A few minutes later he took toast, water, tea and paracetamol through to John.

"Is there anything else you need?" He asked him.

John smiled. "No thanks, I'm fine. Although, actually..." Sherlock looked at him expectantly. "Could you give Scarlet a bath?"

"Of course."

"She's fine to wait for a bit; I'll probably feel better in a few minutes."

"No, it's fine. I'd like to." Sherlock assured him. "Come on Turnip, bath time."

She leapt up to follow him from the room.

oOo

Half an hour later, a somewhat revived John staggered into the bathroom, curious as to the cause of all the noise.

"Arms in the air!" Sherlock commanded Scarlet. She dutifully put her hands above her head. "Oh no! I'm accidentally tickling you again!" Sherlock told her, using a towel to half dry, half tickle her armpits. She squealed with laughter.

John smiled, watching them. Sherlock turned to look at him.

"Feeling any better?" He asked him.

"Yes, thanks. Your toast saved me." John answered.

"I put some menthol in the water. Was that OK?" Sherlock asked, sounding slightly nervous.

"Yes that's fine. Perfect in fact." John told him.

Sherlock nodded. "Look, if you want to go to bed for a bit, I promise you I'll wake you the second Scarlet needs anything, or even looks in anyway... questionable."

John blinked. "I've been somewhat... possessive, haven't I?"

"No, no, not at all." Sherlock answered, and then looking at John, he continued. "Well, maybe a tiny bit, but it's fine, John. It's all fine."

* * *

**I'm afraid I'm not totally sure what's coming next. I have plans for the other prompt from the previous chapter (John starts dating again), also a Christmas chapter, and some of the other prompts are flitting busily around my head. Trouble is, I'm not sure which of them is going to hit the page first right now.**

**I'm also going to be doing NaNoWriMo in November so things might get a bit staggered from here on as I try to formulate a plot for that, but I'll keep going as long as I'm having fun and anyone's still reading!**


	23. Horror!

**A question regarding Mycroft prompted this one. Why doesn't Scarlet know who Mycroft is at the art show? Now I could admit that I didn't give it a moment's thought and I'm kicking myself because **_**obviously**_** she should know him. Or I could just mask it with this.**

**

* * *

**_Four_

Sherlock looked at Lestrade. Lestrade looked impressed. Sherlock thought, somewhat smugly about how he'd managed to go to a crime scene, give an accurate assessment of the situation, and would probably get back home without John even knowing he'd been out. Even if John was to find out, and Sherlock reasoned he probably would, because he would tell him, he'd be happy with the fact that he _didn't_ take Scarlet with him to a crime scene (this was on The List at least three times), and that he'd left her with a responsible adult even thought Mrs Hudson wasn't conveniently available.

As he walked off to find a cab, he thought of the work/life balance; an odd concept that was being bandied around the press as if working parents were a new phenomenon rather than something that had existed for generations. He, he thought to himself, still smugly, had got work/life balance sorted.

His phone started ringing. It was Mycroft. Probably calling for advice on what to do with a four year old, he thought. Smugly.

He answered. At first all he could make out was the sound of Scarlet screaming. He stopped walking. "Mycroft? Mycroft! Are you there? What's happened!" he asked.

Mycroft's voice could be heard desperately trying to calm Scarlet. Suddenly he spoke into the phone "Sherlock, you need to come home. Now." He hung up.

Sherlock wasn't entirely sure how he managed to run the two and a half miles home in a little over ten minutes wearing brogues and a long coat but he could honestly say that he got there as quickly as he could.

Scarlet was a little calmer when he arrived home but was still sobbing and shaking in a terrified fashion while Mycroft sat at the other side of the room, looking at her. She ran to Sherlock as soon as he appeared.

"Turnip, what's wrong?" he asked her, picking her up. "What happened, sweetheart?"

Through her sobs, he could only make out the words "The man! The man! His face!"

Sherlock looked at Mycroft accusingly.

Mycroft gave him a tight smile. "Right, now you're home to take over, I'll just be off." He said.

Sherlock got between Mycroft and the door. "What did you do to her?" He asked.

"Nothing! She's not talking about _me_!" Mycroft answered.

"Then who's she talking about!" Sherlock asked him, sounding angry. "Who was here and what did they do?"

"No-one was here! Nothing happened. She just saw something that may have given her a fright, that's all." Mycroft said, dismissively, trying to step round Sherlock.

Sherlock stepped in front of him again. "Well, what did she see, Mycroft?" he spat at him.

"Nothing! Nothing untoward. It was just a film I happened to put on when I got bored with that hideous blue monster thing that she insists on watching." Mycroft said. He quickly nipped through the kitchen to try the other door.

Sherlock was there before him, waiting in the hallway as the door opened. "What film? Mycroft."

Mycroft sighed. "Look, her attention seemed to be elsewhere so while she wasn't watching the television I went through your DVDs and found something more interesting to me."

"Which was?" Demanded Sherlock.

"Nightmare on Elm Street." Mycroft said quietly. "I'd heard bad reviews, you see, and I've never had the chance to watch it. It seemed like a good opportunity."

While he was speaking, Sherlock had started looking more and more defeated. He shifted Scarlet's weight slightly while she remained clinging to him.

"Oh no." He said quietly. "John's going to kill me."

"Interesting." Mycroft said. Sherlock's eyes were on him instantly. "Well, brother dear," Mycroft explained, "I find it intriguing your immediate concern is not for the distressed child, but for how the situation might affect you."

Sherlock glared at him. He thought of several cutting responses to this. He was as surprised as anyone when his free right arm jabbed out and hit Mycroft straight on the nose.

"Ow!" Mycroft said, frowning at him and pulling out a handkerchief to stop the flow of blood.

Sherlock decided he wasn't going to apologise and instead took Scarlet through to the living room to try to distract her with books, games, and _In the Night Garden_.

Mycroft watched them for a while. "Right, well I'll let myself out then."

"Please do." Sherlock replied.

oOo

All things considered, the explanation to John went fairly well. John had pointed out, quite reasonably, that on paper Mycroft would seem like a perfectly adequate choice for babysitting. He noted that Scarlet didn't seem permanently scarred from the experience, and that in a matter of days she would have forgotten anything about the incident. He also confided to Sherlock that he quite liked horror films and had, once or twice, had one playing while he was giving Scarlet a night feed.

Sherlock was immensely relieved. He admitted to John that he and Mycroft had secretly rented Horror videos and had watched them together when their parents were otherwise distracted. To Mycroft, such films were part of childhood bonding.

The conversation moved on to other banned activities that they'd partaken of without their parents noticing. John's list was surprisingly extensive.

By the time John had gone to bed, Sherlock was quite happy and comfortable in the knowledge that John wasn't about to pack his bags and take Scarlet away again.

It wasn't until several hours later that he spotted The List in the kitchen with the new addition:

42) Never, NEVER let Mycroft babysit. Never.

* * *

**There are some chapters coming when she's older shortly but work is crazy-busy at the moment so they'll be slow. Sorry. I really am trying to work my way through the many brilliant prompts that I'm getting!**

**Thank you indeed for taking the time to review, and I'm also feeling a touch guilty that I haven't responded to each one individually. Again; it's a time thing. I do my best but sometimes it just misses the mark.  
**


	24. Drunk

**This one, and the one that follows immediately after it, cover a number of prompts, or at least thoughts I've had while reading the comments. Unfortunately I'm not sure exactly what I was reading when various thoughts came, so if you've commented, and you read something here that starts bells ringing; then it's your comment I'm using!**

**Definitely the following are included:**

**How about, Scarlett asks about her mother, and John and Sherlock gave to explain what happened, etc? – **_**Google Eleanor**_

**I'd be curious to see when/if Scarlet ever gets introduced to Mycroft. – **_**Cacodaemonia**_

**John meets another girl, and starts dating again, and Scarlet and Sherlock are united in their mutual dislike towards said girl. – **_**TogsTwilightFan.**_

**I know someone asked about Harry at some point but I can't find it anymore – if that was you; sorry.**

**

* * *

**_Fifteen_

Sherlock entered 221b Baker Street. He was exhausted; it had been a long, weary chase. He was annoyed; the perpetrator had been swept into the river and had been dragged from it unconscious before any questioning could take place. He was cold; the chase had taken him into the shallow water at the Southbank at low tide and he was soaking up to his mid thighs. He was smelly; on account of the Thames. It's not the world's cleanest river.

He shut the door behind him and immediately heard the sounds of shouting from the kitchen.

"Scarlet! Calm down! Stop shouting at me!" John yelled.

"No! Don't tell me to calm down! You calm down!" She retorted, loudly.

"I will tell you to calm down when you're being this angry!" John shouted.

"SHUT UP!"

"SCARLET!"

There was the sound of a slamming door. Scarlet tore down the steps with her hair streaming behind her. He stood against the wall as she stormed past and she was out of the door and onto the street in a moment. She slammed the door behind her.

Sherlock went upstairs and into the kitchen where John was, leaning on the surface, clearly trying to calm himself.

"What was that one about?" Sherlock asked him.

John sighed and turned round. "I'm not quite sure. I know I started with 'was that English coursework handed in OK?', and it seemed to escalate from there." He sighed and looked at Sherlock. "What happened to you?"

"Oh; case, running, Thames. That sort of thing." Sherlock answered. "Should we go after Scarlet?"

John thought. "No. You know what; let's not. Let her go and calm down somewhere. You go and clean up; I'll order food and make tea."

"You're sure?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes I'm sure."

oOo

Two hours later the concern was gnawing away at John so he quietly picked up his phone and called Scarlet. There was the sound of a ringing phone coming from the Sofa. Sherlock reached between the two cushions and pulled out the mobile phone.

"Well, that's not going to work then." John pointed out, sounding fairly calm. Sherlock could read his stress levels in his body language though. He wondered why, after all this time, he even bothered trying to cover it any more.

"Should we go and look for her?" he asked.

"No, no." Said John quietly. He started biting his thumbnail. He noticed Sherlock looking at him and stopped.

oOo

An hour later and John was pacing.

"She's probably gone to Serene's house." He said to Sherlock.

"Probably." Sherlock replied. He was lying on the sofa. His relaxed and calm state of being was in stark contrast to John's nervous energy.

"Or she's gone to a gallery. What time does the National close?"

"Nine on a Friday."

"Well, she's probably on her way back then." John said, sounding unconvinced.

"Could be." Sherlock replied.

"Do you think so?" John asked him.

"No."

"Well, where do you think she is then?" John asked, sounding a touch desperate.

Sherlock sat up. "I think Serene's is the most likely scenario. Do you have her number?"

"No. Wait; yes. I have her Mum's number." He got out his mobile phone and scrolled through his contacts. Suddenly he stopped and put his phone down. "No. No I'm not going to call. It's not even late; it's a Friday night and she's fifteen, it's not like she's not allowed to stay out this late. I'd just prefer to know where she was. But I have to give her some space."

Sherlock looked at him for a while.

"Are you sure?" He asked.

"No." John replied. "But nevertheless, that's the best way forward. I think."

oOo

At eleven, John caved and called Serene's mother. Serene was home, Scarlet was not with her. John called round all the other friend's parents he had contact numbers for. Sherlock watched him impassively as he did this. Half an hour later he'd eliminated all of them. He started unravelling.

"Oh God, Sherlock! Where is she? Why didn't I start calling hours ago? Now she's been missing for hours and I didn't even know!" He sat down, looking devastated.

Sherlock frowned at him. "I think 'missing' is a bit of a strong term, John." He said.

"Well what would you call it then?" John seethed at him. "We don't know where she is, we don't know whether she's OK, and we have no way of contacting her."

"Statistically, most teens who disappear after an argument at home return safe and well within a matter of hours." Sherlock said. John glared at him. Sherlock looked confused. "Isn't that comforting to you?" He asked.

"No, not really." John said. "I know that she'll probably turn up, I certainly _hope_ she'll just turn up... but that's completely swamped by '_but what if she doesn't_'. How can you sit there so calmly? Don't you care? And don't say you don't because I know that you do."

"I _do_ care." Sherlock responded. "Of course I do. But the tiny, seriously fractional, chance of something unpleasant happing to her is swamped by the knowledge that it's almost certainly not going to happen. How do you not go mad if you constantly worry and fret about everything? How do you even walk out of your front door in the morning?"

"I don't worry about _everything_! I worry about _Scarlet_! And I don't even worry about everything about Scarlet, I just worry when it's late on a Friday night and I don't know where she is or who she's with. And hell-god-dammit, Sherlock, this is a really, really bad time to start a philosophical and abstract conversation with me about the human condition, don't you think?"

Sherlock sat back. "Right. I'm sorry."

John sat down at the table, shifting his weight uncomfortably, wringing his hands, eyes darting constantly to the window.

"Where do you think she is?" He asked Sherlock.

Sherlock took on that dreamy, distant look he got when trying to work things out. His phone beeped and he looked at it in an irritated fashion. Then he frowned.

"She's with Mycroft." He said to John.

He handed the phone over to John so he could read the incoming text.

'_I've got Scarlet. I'm bringing her home. MH'_

John threw himself back in his chair, relief showing on every inch of him. "Oh, thank god." He said. "Oh... thank god for that." He looked at Sherlock. "Do you want tea? I'll put the kettle on."

Sherlock was still sat on the sofa, looking tense and confused.

"She's with Mycroft?" He said. "She's with _Mycroft_. What the hell's she doing with _Mycroft_?" He asked.

"Who cares as long as she's safe and on her way home." John responded.

"You don't get it, John. Yes she's safe but she's also got into a car with a complete stranger. Stranger to her anyway. What would possess her to do such a thing? Where did Mycroft find her? Why didn't he call us? Why does he always insist on poking his nose in where it doesn't belong?" Sherlock looked tense and upset.

"Well, I for one am quite relieved he did." John told him shortly.

"Well yes in the short term, yes, but he's not allowed near Scarlet. He knows that and he's there with her anyway." Sherlock snapped.

John was incredulous. "Sherlock! Are you still bothered about the babysitting? That was what... ten years ago!"

"That's not the point." Sherlock muttered.

They sat in silence together until the sound of a car pulling up outside sparked them into life again. Sherlock glanced out of the window.

"That's them." He said.

He followed John down the stairs.

Both of them were surprised when they got out to the street. Mycroft was quite gently helping Scarlet out of the car. She appeared to be wearing his coat, beneath which were clothes that didn't belong to her. She was dressed for a party, but not in her usual style. She was wearing make-up too, which was unusual for her, but it was overpowering and messed up with tears. Despite the long coat, she was shivering.

"Where've you been?" John asked her, holding her by the shoulders.

"Aunt Harry's." Was her mumbled reply. Her eyes looked tired and unfocussed.

John wrinkled his nose. "Have you been drinking? And smoking?"

Her face crumpled and she started crying. "I'm really sorry, Dad."

"All right." He said quietly, putting his arm gently around her. "It's OK, Scarlet. Come on inside."

Before he took her into the house he quickly helped her out of Mycroft's coat and handed it across to him. Sherlock's eyes widened as he saw the dark red bite-mark on her left arm.

As soon as the others were inside he turned on Mycroft. "What the hell are you doing with her?" He said in an angry whisper.

"I'm bringing her home. Isn't that obvious?" Mycroft replied, unmoved.

"So you just happened to meet her?" Sherlock pressed him.

"No of course not. I knew she'd had an argument with the girls at school, which led me to believe she was likely to have an argument at home too. When she left here, I arranged to have her followed and I was very surprised that she went to her Aunt's house; I didn't realise they were in touch."

"Surveillance let you down?" Sherlock asked angrily. "What are you doing? Paying her friends to spy on her?"

"Yes. But I find that leaves rather large gaps in my knowledge." Responded Mycroft. "Anyhow, a party was arranged and when Scarlet left the party looking confused and unhappy and being trailed by a young man, I thought it would be sensible to pick her up before she got into any more trouble."

"And she just got into the car with you? No questions asked?" Sherlock asked, bitterly.

"Indeed. I rather think at that moment she decided I was the lesser of two evils. I suspect that the young chap she was with at the time will find his evening is about to turn quite difficult."

Sherlock sagged. The fight had gone out of him. "What did he do to her?" He asked.

"She wouldn't say." Mycroft responded. He looked at Sherlock hesitantly. "I appreciate that you prefer me to keep my distance and until now I've avoided contacting Scarlet directly. I would ask though, if I could have a status report on her in the morning."

Sherlock stared at him. "You want to know how she is?" He translated. "Why?"

Mycroft looked away slightly and sniffed before answering. "I find I'm concerned about her. I used to be interested, of course, because the affect she has had on you is quite remarkable. Now I find I'm interested in her for her own sake."

"Why?" Sherlock immediately asked.

"Because she's interesting." Mycroft replied. "And because she's... family. Isn't she?" He looked hard at Sherlock. "I find, quite unexpectedly, that I care about her."

Sherlock slowly nodded. "Fine, I'll text you tomorrow." He responded. As Mycroft turned and walked away, Sherlock called after him. "Mycroft!" Mycroft turned to look at him. "Thank you for bringing her home." Sherlock said quietly to him.

Mycroft nodded in response and got back into his car.

Sherlock climbed the stairs slowly and went into the kitchen. He could hear the sounds of Scarlet crying and vomiting in the bathroom. Feeling helpless he put the kettle on. A few seconds later he came to his senses and carried a pint of water, a first aid kit and the trusty bucket up to John. Then he came back downstairs and turned his computer on.

oOo

John worried and fretted about Scarlet. She was uncoordinated and shaking so much she could barely drink the water Sherlock had brought for her. He started to suspect that Harry may have given her something alongside the alcohol. He tried to squash the feeling of terror that that thought gave him. Eventually he focussed on getting her warm and calm and helped her to her bedroom. She got upset when he tried to help her get changed so he just gave her pyjamas and turned his back.

She eventually managed to dress herself and sat on her bed looking lost and small. She looked significantly younger than her fifteen years.

John rolled up her t-shirt sleeve and started putting antiseptic cream on the bite.

"Who did this to you, Scarlet?" He couldn't stop himself from asking.

"I don't know." She answered quietly. "I don't even remember his name."

"Did he do... anything else to you?" John asked lightly.

She shook her head, but the thought made her retch and vomit again.

John bit back any more questions and restricted himself to bandaging her arm and settling her in her bed. He started to leave but she called out to him.

"Dad?"

"Mm?"

"What was Mum like?" She asked.

The question was utterly surprising to him. He paused, not knowing how to answer.

"Was she like Alison?" Scarlet asked him.

"Um, no. Maybe a bit. Not very." He answered ineffectively.

"I don't like Alison." Scarlet said, tiredly. John just stared at her. "I'm glad Mum wasn't like her."

"Go to sleep, Scarlet." John said. "We'll talk more in the morning. He turned off her light.

oOo

They all slept late the following day. It was nearly mid-day before John carried toast and tea up to Scarlet's room. He found her awake but in bed. She was wasn't reading or writing; she was just lying there.

"How are you feeling?" John asked her.

She shook her head at him, but winced. "I'm fine." She said.

John put the tea and toast down. "You should eat something. It'll make you feel better."

She wriggled herself up slightly and picked up her tea. John sat down at the end of her bed and scooted up until he was leaning against the wall. She watched him as he did so.

"Yes, I am staying." John told her. "Clearly we have to have a conversation."

"Is this my punishment?" Scarlet asked him.

"Oh no." John told her with a smile. "This is just a conversation."

She stared at him, waiting patiently. He seemed to be struggling with the exact wording.

"Scarlet, you can't keep losing your temper each time something goes awry in your life. You have to start talking to me before things have got you so worked up. If you don't like my girlfriend, don't you think it's more healthy to discuss that with me than to not say anything and instead run away and get hopelessly drunk?"

"I don't... It's not that I dislike Alison." Scarlet said sullenly.

"Really?" He asked her. "Because yesterday you were fairly clear that you didn't."

She squirmed slightly. "Yesterday I was drunk." She pointed out.

"Yes, and we're coming back to that in a bit." John told her. "Why do you think I'm going to get upset if you don't like Alison?"

"Aren't you?" She asked. "Does it really not matter to you?"

"I'd rather you at least got on enough to be polite but I don't expect you to suddenly be her best friend." He looked at his daughter. "Scarlet, I like her. I enjoy spending time with her. I don't want to make you uncomfortable or unhappy, but I'm not going to stop seeing her because you aren't prepared to at least try."

She sighed, and then nodded.

"I also want you to start telling me where you're going when you go out, who you'll be with, and critically, what time you'll be back. And if you're going to drink, I want to know that you're going to be at least sensible."

"You don't trust me." Scarlet said blankly.

"Yeah, I don't think you have any right to the moral high ground there, do you?" John asked her.

"Well you don't need to worry; I'm never going to drink again." She said.

"Don't worry." He told her. "It's not always like that."

She raised an eyebrow at him.

"Your Aunt Harry got me drunk for the first time too." He told her. "White Lightening in the park behind the school. It put me off cider for years. I still don't like the stuff."

"She must think I'm more sophisticated than you." Scarlet replied. "I got vodka and cranberry."

John snorted.

"Is that why you don't like her?" Scarlet asked. "Because she got you drunk?"

"No. That was just one event among a string of events where Harry was irresponsible and selfish and when that continued after you were born I decided I'd rather she wasn't a part of your life." He sighed and looked into the distance.

"So why doesn't Sherlock like his brother? He doesn't seem particularly irresponsible." She asked.

"Oh that? I'm not entirely sure. I think on some levels they do like each other, but on others there's a huge amount of jealousy on both sides. He doesn't really talk about it often. I think we should change that though, because between us we have two siblings and mine got you raving drunk then let you out on your own and his picked you up and brought you home. As much as Sherlock might resent it, he wins."

"I don't think this would matter so much if I could remember Mum at all. Sometimes it just feels like there's no-one in my life but you and Sherlock, and you're leaving to be with someone else."

"No I'm not!" John protested. "I like Alison, I'm enjoying spending time with her but not intending to marry her or move out or move her in at any time in the near future. I'm not disappearing anywhere. And to be honest, Scarlet, it's not going to so very long before you're spending less and less time at home and have people in your life other than me and Sherlock. What are we supposed to do? Sit around not moving on in case you want to come home for a bit? Life doesn't work that way."

She nodded slowly. "I'm sorry, Dad." She told him, there were tears in her eyes. "It just feels strange, that's all. And I still really wish I knew something about my Mum. There's nothing there. We never talk about her, there are hardly any pictures. It doesn't seem fair." She swiped her tears away with her hand.

John swallowed. "Yeah, I'm sorry about that." He said. "It's just... well, I don't know."

The sat in silence for a while.

"So was that it?" Scarlet asked him, looking hopeful.

"No. The bite, Scarlet." He said. Her face clouded instantly. He worried slightly but pushed her anyway. "Can you tell me what happened?"

"It was silly." She said, trying hard not to cry again. She swallowed. "I told him I didn't want to kiss him, and he asked if he could lick my arm, and I said yes, and he did, and I remember finding it funny, then he suddenly bit me." She looked at John. "I don't know why, it was odd, and I was dizzy and I wasn't thinking straight. I don't know if I said anything to make him do it. I just don't know."

"You didn't." John told her quickly.

"You can't know." She told him, her hands were over her face now, she looked like she didn't want the rest of the world to exist any more.

"Yes I can; unless you had said "please bite me" there is nothing you could have said that would justify that. And even if you'd have said "please bite me" he should absolutely _not_ have done so."

"OK." She said quietly. She didn't look convinced though.

"Look, eat your toast, drink your tea; you'll feel better." John told her.

"So that's it?" She asked. "No punishment?"

"Oh, I'd nearly forgotten. Yes, well you need to clean the bathroom. Properly clean it I mean, and then the kitchen too."

"I wasn't in the kitchen!" Scarlet protested.

"And yet you're going to clean it." John told her.

"Is that it?" She asked.

"Nooooo." John told her. "Then you're going to sit through a lecture by Sherlock about the dangers of getting into cars with people you don't know."

"A lecture." She said flatly.

"Oh, he's worked quite hard." John told her. "There's a Powerpoint presentation and everything."

Scarlet laughed. He was happy to see her smile again.

"Drink your tea." John told her. "I'll see you downstairs in a bit."

* * *

**A loooong one. Sorry – I'm never sure whether to cut these long ones down to bitesize chunks or leave them as one long piece. Also it's very angsty though hopefully not overly so. To make up for it, I have a lovely fluffy chapter to follow which will be up hopefully on Friday evening.**

**As a tempter; the next one will be a slide show from John to give Scarlet, and in fact Sherlock, a bit of a sense of belonging.**


	25. Sweet Sixteen

_Sixteen_

As Sherlock walked downstairs he became aware of a high level of noise coming from the kitchen. He noted that it didn't seem to be a row. In fact, it was a happy, joyful noise. It had been some time since Scarlet last lost her temper. He could see it brewing sometimes, and just bubbling beneath the surface, but she seemed to be making a real effort to remain calm. He knew that John was making an effort too, and when he saw Scarlet falling apart he would check himself and slowly and gently guide her through. And now, they appeared to be happy with each other again. Noisily so.

He descended and stood in the kitchen doorway. John had turned the radio up and was singing loudly, clearly mugging his performance, and Scarlet was laughing as he did so.

"_The hopes we had, were much too high, way out of reach but we had to try!"_ John sang along, using a wooden spoon as a microphone.

Scarlet laughed, her cheeks flushed and her eyes shining. She was sat at the dining table that was laid ready for dinner. John continued dancing around the kitchen and singing, and she continued laughing. Eventually he pulled her to her feet and with an arm around her shoulders he offered her the spoon. She joined him in the finale.

"_The game will never be oooooover, because we're keeping the dream alive."_

She bent double with laughter as John turned the radio down and went back to the cooker to stir something.

"Seriously, Dad, you couldn't carry a tune in a bucket." She told him.

"Yeah, but I can still do this!" he said, swiftly reaching across and tickling her under her ribs. She squealed and darted across the kitchen.

Sherlock found he was smiling. Once again he marvelled at the closeness between the father and daughter and he thought wistfully that he'd never have someone in his life as close to him. There was a familiar tug in his chest that in previous years he'd tried to shake off, assuming it was jealousy. It was only in recent years that he'd realised he'd misdiagnosed it and in fact it was love. He'd started enjoying it now. As much as he'd never have someone as close to him as Scarlet was to John, he acknowledged that twenty-five years ago he'd never imagined that anyone would be as close to him as either one of them were.

"You know what we should do?" John said to Sherlock as if he'd always been a part of the scene. "A karaoke night!"

"God no!" Scarlet said. "Tell him, Sherlock; he can't sing!"

"Clearly you just need to hear another song." John told her. "Sherlock and I can do a duet. 'Don't let the sun go down on me.' Elton John. Perfect."

Sherlock found that he was unsure of how to reply. The level of joy in the kitchen was a long way outside of his comfort zone. Scarlet had walked over to him and leant against him and he put his arm round her.

The doorbell rang.

"Saved by the bell." John said.

"I'll get it." Scarlet said before skipping lightly down the staircase.

Sherlock noted the six place settings and frowned. "Is Alison coming?" he asked.

"No." John said shortly.

Sherlock realised that there may be something slightly politic in this; inviting Alison to Scarlet's sixteenth birthday dinner might not have gone down well. He had noticed though of late that John seemed to be seeing her less, and was reluctant to talk about her.

"Who's the..." He heard familiar tones from downstairs "You've invited Mycroft!" he whispered furiously.

"Yes." John answered. "Mrs Hudson, Mycroft and Lestrade."

"That isn't fair! Why did you invite my sibling and not yours?" Sherlock whined at him.

"I did invite mine; it was Scarlet's request that they were both invited. Harry wouldn't come."

Sherlock felt a moment of anger and decided that he would try to be vaguely pleasant to Mycroft if he was Scarlet's guest. Or at least he wouldn't try to be unpleasant.

"Why Lestrade?" Sherlock asked.

"Because Scarlet invited him." John said. "The deal was one dinner party at home with family and one unsupervised evening out with her friends. She agreed to the family one if she got to say who family were. Lestrade seemed quite touched that he was included. Confused, but touched. And in case you're wondering, she did say that Alison could come. I chose not to invite her."

"You know, even after sixteen years she can still surprise me." Sherlock said to John.

"Me too." Said John. "I like it. It makes it feel that even after sixteen years, we're still at the beginning really.

The rest of the party arrived noisily upstairs, Mycroft and Scarlet having met Lestrade and Mrs Hudson on the way. Both of the older men seemed slightly uncomfortable and unsure of themselves but John just waved them in and sat them down, offering each a drink. It helped that Scarlet was completely relaxed and looking after Mrs Hudson with care and sensitivity. John noted that both Mycroft and Sherlock both appeared to be on their best behaviour, with Mycroft not dominating the conversation and Sherlock not being deliberately antagonistic. Lestrade could and would talk to anyone about anything regardless of their age, sex or background and soon they were all talking quite freely. Scarlet seemed almost greedily hanging on every word of every story involving John and Sherlock.

After dinner they all adjourned to the sitting room.

"I think it's time for Scarlet's birthday present!" John announced.

"Is it a pony?" She instantly asked.

"No, still not a pony. Everyone sit down."

Sherlock, Mycroft and Lestrade sat side by side on the sofa, Mrs Hudson on one armchair and John with his laptop on the other. Scarlet sat on the floor between John and Sherlock.

"Are you giving me a laptop?" She asked.

"No," replied John. "Just give me a second." He said. He turned the television on and found the channel that was projecting his computer screen. He opened a PowerPoint projection.

"Seriously!" Scarlet protested. "What is it with you two and PowerPoint? It's like you've just learned the technology or something!"

John and Sherlock laughed. The file opened and the first slide was a school picture of Scarlet taken when she was twelve

"Oh I hate that one!" Scarlet complained. It was a terrible photograph; she was frowning and looking at something happening at the other side of the hall.

"Scarlet Watson." John said, as the words slid onto the screen. "This is your life! And some other people's lives too."

She grinned.

The second slide was of a girl of about ten. She had bale brown hair and blue eyes and appeared to be on holiday somewhere.

"It's your Mum." John told her, slightly redundantly. "She went on her first foreign holiday to Greece when she was ten, and that's her on the acropolis."

Scarlet stared, wide eyed. "She looks like me. Or I look like her." She said.

"Yes." John said. "Which I suppose is quite lucky for you, given the alternative. I hadn't really noticed before because I don't look back at these old photos of your Mum's, but there were a few where I was genuinely surprised that it wasn't you. Your eyes are bluer though."

"And you've got your Dad's nose." Sherlock said.

"Yeah, sorry about that." John told her. "You wear it well though."

Scarlet giggled.

He clicked through to the next slide. "There she is with your Grandparents." They were perched as a family in front of the Parthenon. John let her gaze at it for a while.

After a moment he continued; "And the same year, your Dad was fourteen and looked like this." He clicked on the next slide.

Everyone laughed. John was depicted wearing a silver suit and platforms. "I'd like to say it was for a play, but it was actually for a school disco. I honestly thought I looked quite good."

"Oh Dad, no!" Scarlet said while laughing. "I've always thought you dressed too dull; I was wrong!"

"I am a man of extremes." John said while everyone laughed and disagreed. He continued; "And in the same year Sherlock was a lovely innocent and joyous young boy of six." He clicked again and there was more laughter; there was Sherlock with a scowl on his face and clench fists glaring at the camera while Mycroft stood looking aloof next to him.

"Why were you so angry?" Scarlet asked him.

"I don't remember!" He said. He was staring, feeling strangely moved. He hadn't expected to see himself there alongside John and Mary and Scarlet.

"I do." Put in Mycroft. "You were not allowed to have Binky in the picture with you."

"Binky?" Scarlet asked.

"Teddy bear." Mycroft said. "He utterly loved it but Mummy felt that at six he was old enough for one photograph without it. He disagreed."

"Binky!" Sherlock said in wonder. "I'd completely forgotten."

"Your first ever bear was a present from Sherlock, Scarlet." John told her.

"I know." She said. "Sherlock bear. I've still got it."

John clicked through more photos. Most of him were met with laughter, and he lingered over the ones of Mary, allowing Scarlet to look closely at her. There was one of her on her sixteenth birthday. She was close to the camera and it showed her leaning her chin on her hands. She was smiling gently and there wearing a sapphire ring. When John looked down there were tears in Scarlet's eyes. She looked up at her Dad and smiled though. He stroked her hair.

There were graduation photographs of all three of them, Mary, John and Sherlock.

"Really, Sherlock!" Mrs Hudson said. "You'd think you'd look happy on your graduation day at least!"

"I really couldn't see the point."

"So you told everyone who'd listen, over and over." Mycroft reminded him. "You didn't need a piece of paper to show your intelligence."

"Well I didn't!" Sherlock said. "I still don't."

"Maybe I won't go to University." Scarlet said.

"Yes you will." John and Sherlock chorused. The others all laughed at them.

More photographs. One of John in uniform made Scarlet sit up and John paused. She looked at him now, trying to read his thoughts in his face, and he looked down at her.

"You can ask questions if you want." He gently prompted her.

She paused for a moment looking at him. "Not now." She said quietly. "Maybe later."

More photos.

"And here's me and my best man on my wedding day." John said and clicked again.

There were John and Sherlock, stood side by side. Both of them looked like they were rabbits caught in the headlights.

"Wow you look young!" Scarlet said.

"Thank you." John said. "I think it was the nervousness."

"Oh!" Scarlet said. "I meant Sherlock." Everyone laughed. "Seriously though; you could have passed for twenty-one!" she told him.

"You still don't look happy, Sherlock." Mrs Hudson complained.

"I was happy." Sherlock said. "Sort of. I was happy for John." Mycroft gave him a look. "I _was_!" he insisted.

"I think he was happy." John said. "He seems to be here." It was another wedding picture of Mary in an elegant white dress, holding John's hand who was now relaxed and smiling, and Sherlock grinning at both of them.

"Mum looks so happy." Scarlet said.

"She was a very happy person," John told her, "and that happy day was followed by an even happier event."

The next photo was one of Scarlet as a scrunched up and swaddled in a hospital blanket as a newborn.

"It's the Turnip!" Sherlock cried in recognition.

Scarlet grinned at him. "Why did you always call me that?" She asked.

"Because you looked like a turnip." He answered as if it was obvious.

"Thanks!" She said.

"It wasn't an insult." He told her. "It was purely descriptive."

"Seriously, Sherlock!" Scarlet laughed at him. "When you're in a hole; stop digging."

"I don't think you looked at all like a turnip." Mrs Hudson said.

"You started looking quite normal very quickly." Sherlock assured her. "See; you look nearly nice there!" John had clicked on the next photo; one of her being held by Mary when she was just a few weeks old.

"Thank you, Sherlock!" Scarlet said again, laughing at him.

Sherlock smiled at her. "Well, you might not like it, but I think you'll always be a little bit Turnip to me."

"We were all amazed, Scarlet, at how quickly Sherlock took to you." John told her. "He had threatened to delete you."

Sherlock pulled a face. "You remember that?" he said. "Why can't you just remember the nice things I've said?"

"I do remember the nice things you've said." John told him. "I remember both of them, quite clearly!"

Sherlock threw a cushion at his head but he batted it away. Scarlet grabbed it and sat on it.

"It did become apparent," John said to Scarlet, "that Sherlock did like you quite a lot, and I think you awakened a caring instinct he didn't think he had."

The next photo was of Sherlock asleep on a cream coloured sofa. On the floor beside him was a Moses basket and Sherlock's arm was draped into it.

"When was that taken?" Mycroft asked, clearly surprised.

"It was the night of Mary's funeral." John said. "He insisted I slept properly while he took Scarlet for a night and I came into the lounge in the morning to find him like that."

"Sounds like Sherlock's caring instinct were woken long before I came along." Scarlet said quietly to John, with a smile.

"What were you doing to her?" Lestrade asked, still staring at the photo.

"I couldn't hear her breathing." Sherlock explained. "She was so quiet I had to check constantly with my hand and eventually I fell asleep that way."

"He was certainly dedicated when it came to childcare." John said with a smile. "As we can see here."

The next photo was a distant shot of Sherlock talking to Lestrade with various police officers and cars around them. There was the unmistakable sight of the straps of a baby-sling were crossed over his back and a small foot was just visible poking out from his side.

Scarlet laughed. "I wondered why that was on The List so many times!"

"It did make crime scenes more cheery for a while." Lestrade said.

"John was always dead against." Sherlock said.

"Well, I admit now, that it was nice to occasionally get out the house to attend a crime scene. Even if it was only to retrieve my daughter."

"Dad you're weird." Scarlet said and John laughed. "Why did I stop going?"

"When you started talking, Sherlock couldn't keep it a secret any more." John told her.

"Also you threw up on Anderson's head once and he got all cross about crime scene contamination." Lestrade added.

"Oh yeah!" John laughed. "I'd forgotten."

"See I found quite early that you had your uses, Scarlet." Sherlock told her.

"And he liked to join you in every little adventure you had." The next photo showed Sherlock and Scarlet on the cream sofa with a blanket over both of them, both covered in Chicken pox.

"Sherlock also suggested home schooling for you." John told her. "He said he'd teach you, so I left you here with him for a day as a trial run and by the time I'd got back he'd changed his mind."

"Why?" Laughed Scarlet, "What did I do?"

"You were... easily distractable." Sherlock said. "I'd tell you something about ancient Rome and you'd respond by telling me something about ducks. It was very confusing. I decided you'd be better off with the professionals."

"Also when I got home, I found him like this." John said, putting another picture up.

It was of Sherlock covered with makeup. His lips were smeared with bright red lipstick, there were further red spots on both cheekbones and bright blue eye-shadow from eyelash to eye-brow.

They all howled with laughter.

"It's the hair that makes it art!" Mycroft said. Sherlock's hair was tufted into small uneven bunches and there were several glittery hairclips randomly placed in it. "John, you must let me have a copy of that one." He said, wiping his eyes.

"I never could do makeup." Scarlet admitted.

"Aunty Harry bought you a box for your fourth birthday." John told her. "I thought you were a bit too young and hid it. You found it though. What's up next? Oh yes; experiments."

The next photo was of Scarlet at about five, and Sherlock next to her, both completely covered in flour. Their eyes showed dark and shining through the masses of white that both covered and surrounded them. They were both smiling though.

"That wasn't an experiment!" Sherlock said. "That was your birthday cake!"

"Well, in your case I've found the boundary between cooking and experiments seems to be somewhat blurred." More laughter. "Now Scarlet," John continued, "I've looked and looked and I can only find one photograph with both you and me in it. And it's this one."

The photograph showed John in an awful suit next to Scarlet in an awful green and scalloped dress.

"Aunt Harry's wedding." Scarlet said. "God that dress was foul. I was so pleased when she didn't bother with bridesmaids for her next one."

"I have pictures of you and your Dad." Sherlock said.

"Really?" John asked.

Sherlock blushed. "Yes. One or two. I'll send them to you Scarlet and you can add them to these."

"There's always this one." John said. The last photo was of Scarlet aged thirteen, in her school uniform, stood beside two large pictures painted on board. Sherlock, Mycroft and Lestrade all sat forwards to look at it closely.

"That Sherlock picture is really, really good." Lestrade said.

"Isn't it." Mycroft agreed. "It's hanging in my office. Scarlet, Presidents and Prime-Ministers have commented on that picture. And I think if you know Sherlock, it actually means more."

"I'm still cross that you outbid me." Sherlock said.

"And me." Said John.

"Well, it's mine now." Mycroft said, mischievously adding "So there."

"Actually, Mycroft, I was wondering if I could have it back." Scarlet said. "Not now, but in a couple of years, I was thinking that maybe I'll apply for art school. After I've finished my a-levels, I mean. I'll need a portfolio and though it's old it's still a good piece."

"Of course." Mycroft said. "Anything that I can do to help will be done."

"Thank you," Scarlet answered, looking slightly embarrassed, "but I think just the picture is fine. I'd quite like to be sure that if I get a place at a good school it's on my own merits."

Mycroft smiled at her, startled at her insight. "Of course." He said again.

"Well, that's all I've got." John said. "But I have had them printed and put in here." He handed her a large, well-bound photo-album. "It's only half full." He told her. "I get the impression that there's a lot more to go."

"Thank you, Dad." She said quietly.

"One other present." He told her. "Not from me though; it's from your Mum."

She looked up at him surprised. He handed her across a small jewellery box. Opening it, she found a small gold ring set with a sapphire and two small diamonds.

"It's an old family heirloom from your Mother's family. The oldest girl is given it on her sixteenth birthday and she wears it until she gets an engagement ring. When we first found out we were having a girl, the first thing your Mum said was "now I'll have someone to give the ring to." She was so happy, Scarlet."

Scarlet wept openly now, and quickly stood and hugged John, burying her face in his jumper. He pushed the laptop aside and hugged her back.

The rest of the room were respectfully silent watching them for a moment. Each of them was thinking their own private thoughts. Apart from Mrs Hudson who suddenly and loudly snored.

They all laughed again.

The party broke up. Sherlock and Lestrade helped a slightly befuddled Mrs Hudson downstairs to her own flat. Mycroft thanked Scarlet profusely for inviting him. Before he left he caught Sherlock in the doorway and thanked him too. It was an abrupt statement and he turned and fled before Sherlock could think to answer him.

The remaining three of them spent the rest of the evening scrolling the photographs and recalling stories from their past and laughing together.

Before Scarlet went up to bed she turned to John. "You know, I do miss Mum, and I wish I'd have known her, but I think you did an OK job at finding a replacement for her."

John smiled. "I don't like to think of Sherlock as a replacement." He told her. "He's more of an addition. There have been countless times in your life when I've wished your Mum was alive to see you, to tell me the right thing to say, to just be the one who has to tell you 'no' occasionally. But then I like that Sherlock's been so present too. Even if he never knows the right thing to say and never, ever tells you 'no'. He's been a big influence, and, though I wouldn't have chosen this way at all, I really like who you are now. So I think on balance it's worked out OK."

Scarlet smiled at him. "You're getting soppy in your old age Dad."

"Oh, I've always been soppy. Don't let the army and the gun fool you."

There was suddenly a banging crash from Sherlock's room and a billow of black smoke wafted out into the hall.

"I'm OK!" Sherlock called out coughing. "I'm fine!"

"Yeah." Said John. "And sometimes I wonder how you're so sane _despite_ Sherlock's influence.

They went into their own rooms and closed the doors.

* * *

**In many ways I'm tempted to call this one the end, but I've had so, so many requests for a 'boyfriend interrogation' chapter that I will have to do that one at some point, but I can't say precisely when though.  
**

**Also the many people who requested Sherlock's PowerPoint lecture – trust me; you're able to imagine it far better than I am able to write it!**

**There are more prompts used here; certainly the makeup came courtesy of Kunoichi 008 and the 'baby at the crime scene' was from a number of people (but I can't find the original reviews).**

**Thank you all for the very inspiring ideas that you've sent my way, and the lovely, lovely reviews.**


	26. Birds and Bees

**Yeah, OK, I'm still here, and I still haven't got the 'interrogation' chapter right. And though the last chapter makes such a nice bookend to the 'series' there are still unwritten prompts to write and I really intend to do as many of them as possible. And though I've been in a hideous mood all week and writing nothing but angst, a nice e-mail has cheered me up, so this then suddenly became possible...**

**The prompt was originally... from MillieTogsTwilightFan **_**you could gain a few giggles with the whole birds and bees talk. I know I would giggle at the idea of John attempting that, even if he is a doctor. Or god forbid, Sherlock trying to.**_

_**

* * *

**Four and a half_

It was early evening and a delightful calm had descended on the flat at Baker Street. Scarlet was lying on the floor colouring with crayons in a huge sketch book. Sherlock was lying on the sofa, reading _New Scientist_ and John was at the table, blogging. Or at least trying to blog. He'd suffered from something of a writer's block following a comment on his last post from Harry: _'Not everyone wants to hear about every sneeze from your spawn, John.'_

While he was fairly sure she was drunk at the time of posting, and though her comment was immediately protested by Lestrade, Sarah, Molly, MrsHudson, Sherlock, and from what he could tell, half of Scotland Yard, it still stung. And despite his constant unspoken mantra of 'focus on the good, focus on the good', he found his confidence was shaken. He wondered if it was worth bothering with it any more; after all, the blog was a psychotherapy tool that hadn't been needed for a long time now. But a part of him really liked the feedback; he knew it was stupid and his self esteem didn't remotely rely on it, but he still found the comments and feedback slightly addictive. And what's not to love about random strangers telling you they think your daughter is brilliant?

"Dad?" Scarlet suddenly said.

"Mmm? Yes?" It was the response of a parent with only half a mind on his child.

"Tessa's got a new brother."

"That's nice." He responded, automatically.

"Could I have a new brother? Just a little one." John found his mind suddenly yanked back to the present.

"Um, no, not really."

"Can I have a sister?" She asked.

"No." John replied steadily.

"Oh! Why not?" She asked with a whine.

Though John couldn't see Sherlock's face behind his magazine, he got the impression that his friend was no longer reading, but listening intently.

"Well, because you need a Mummy to have a baby." Even as he spoke he realised that this was not strictly accurate. "Well," he continued, "some people have two daddies and some others have two mummies but somewhere in the process you need to start out with at least one of each." Again he queried his own accuracy. "In fact, just one of each. One Mummy and one Daddy. They might not end up being the people who look after the baby but they need to be there when it's made." He reviewed his words and nodded, satisfied.

He looked down at Scarlet. She was sat up now, with a look of complete confusion on her face.

"What?" she said.

Sherlock noisily turned a page. John could imagine the smirk on his face. Funny how he said he wanted to help with everything, John thought, but seemed quite happy to leave the parenting to John right now.

"OK, Scarlet, what was it exactly that you wanted to know?" John asked.

"Why can't I have a baby sister?" She responded.

"OK, well, you have one Daddy, that's me" he said, hoping to avoid further confusion, "and if I wanted to make another baby to be a sister for you, I'd have to find a Mummy to make it with. One of each you see."

"Can't you just make a baby with Tessa's Mummy? She can make them." Scarlet asked him. It was undoubtedly a logical suggestion.

"Well no." John replied. "She doesn't want to make babies with me; she only wants to make babies with Tessa's daddy."

"Well that's not very fair." Scarlet said. She picked up a different colour and went back to her picture.

John grinned. Ha! He thought to himself, crisis averted. A quiet sigh from Sherlock suggested that he was slightly disappointed.

"So how do a mummy and a daddy make a baby?" Scarlet asked. "Why do they both have to be there? Why can't you just do all the making by yourself?"

John found his mouth was opening and closing without anything coming out of it. Sherlock unhelpfully rolled onto his side so his back was to the room. His stiff limbs, unsteady breathing and bright pink ears were unmistakable signs of suppressed laughter. It spurred John on to find a fair, complete and above all not-juvenile answer to Scarlet's questions.

"OK, Scarlet, well, inside every mummy there are hundreds of teeny tiny little eggs, and inside every daddy are thousands of teeny tiny little sperms and it's when a teeny tiny sperm swims up to an egg and catches hold of it that the egg starts slowly turning into a baby. So you need at least one egg from a mummy and one sperm from a daddy to make a baby." He breathed out slowly, praying for a distraction. Maybe an explosion or something similar.

"We have eggs in the kitchen." She pointed out.

"But those are chicken eggs." He told her. "You can only make chickens out of chicken eggs."

"Or meringue." She said.

"Yes, but you need human eggs to make a human baby, and they are only in mummies." He told her.

"And they swim?" Scarlet queried.

"No the eggs stay still, the sperm swim to meet them."

"How?" she asked.

"There's liquid involved." John said shortly. He turned back to the computer screen. "Isn't Waybaloo on now, Scarlet? Do you want me to find it on the telly for you?"

"Do people make babies in the kitchen?" Scarlet asked. "On the cooker?"

"No," John answered, feeling on safer ground here, "babies are made in their mummy's tummies. It's exactly the right temperature to cook a baby, and it takes forty weeks. Is it bath night tonight?"

"How does the daddy put the... sperms in the mummy?" Scarlet asked.

Sherlock suddenly choked and a coughing fit ensued.

"Oh dear, Sherlock, that is a nasty cough." John said in an icy tone. "Perhaps you'd like to get yourself some water. For a long time."

"I'm fine, thanks." Sherlock said, through the coughing. John looked at Scarlet out of the corner of his eye and she seemed to be absorbed with watching Sherlock. He surreptitiously turned back to the computer. She wasn't to be derailed though.

"How do they, Dad?" she persisted. "Does he make her a special drink?"

John spluttered a bit. "No." He said, "No, not exactly." She looked at him with questioning eyes. He sighed. "Daddies put their sperm into the mummy by... by using... well, by using their willy."

"Christopher has a willy!" Scarlet said excitedly. "I _saw_ it! Could he be a daddy and put his sperm in me? I could be a mummy!"

Sherlock made a very quiet strangled noise. Scarlet didn't notice and she continued to stare at John who by now had his head in his hands.

"No." He told her. "No, you have to be at least thirty to make a baby." He'd abandoned all will to be strictly factual and opted instead for 'say anything that will end this conversation'. "Right." He said firmly. "Bedtime."

Her usual protests were made and as usual he overruled all of them. She ran upstairs to her room.

She'd barely reached the upstairs landing before Sherlock turned over and roared with laughter. After several minutes of this he wiped his eyes and calmed himself. "Oh, John." He said. "She's an absolute joy, isn't she?" He started laughing again.

John found himself grinning despite himself. Nevertheless he picked up a handy book and flung it at Sherlock's head.

"Hey! What was that for?" Sherlock demanded through his laughter.

"You deserved it." John said. "I'll tell you why when I've thought of why."

"Sherlock?" Scarlet's voice carried down from upstairs. "I'm in my pyjamas and I've done my teeth! Are you coming to read to me?"

Sherlock got up, still laughing, and wandered up towards her room.

John looked at his blog page and started typing.

_Scarlet remains brilliant, lovely and joyful. She's started to ask all the hard questions though. Sherlock is, as usual, no help at all._

_I am happy to report she hasn't sneezed a single time today._


	27. Interrogation

**Ok, I tried to cover the whole boyfriend issue out in chapter 13, but it's been requested so many times it seems that I missed the mark somewhat. The problem I have is that neither Sherlock nor John would do anything to upset Scarlet if it was in their power to prevent it, so the idea of them interrogating an actual boyfriend or suitor that Scarlet really wanted to be with ... well let's just say that John would destroy anyone who tried it and the others wouldn't take the risk. So I was confused and nowhere until Irene Norton came up with the idea of someone hurting her.**

**I didn't want it to be uber angsty, which is why the first eleven attempts at this have been rejected. It is also lacking in deduction fun, so sorry about that too. I am, however, quite relieved to have finally written this in a form that I'm happy with.**

**Anyhow; the honour role to the many, many people who prompted this one.**

_**If anyone ever tried to hurt Scarlet, they'd be like, doomed for life **_**- Irene Norton**

_**Oh, heck, any bloke trying to date Scarlet is going to have to cope with John Watson and both Holmes brothers, isn't he? **_**- SpaceAnJL**

_**Protective Mycroft for the win...seriously. I could just see him being the creepy but overprotective concerned uncle **_**– Bartimus Crotchety**

_**Grilled by Sherlock who can see every minute detail and threatened with John's medical competency and his accuracy with a firearm...I think the boy would wet himself before Scarlet even made it down the stairs...then I see all sorts of angst with her yelling at her two Dads! - **_**Bartimus Crotchety**

_**Waaay into the future, what will happen should 'Turnip' get married? I can see any potential hubby being doubly interrogated by both John and Sherlock! I can even imagine them putting desk lamps on a future hubby - like in really bad police shows! Lol – **_**Volitan**

_**I would really like to see Scarlet get a boyfriend, and John be okay with it and Sherlock freak out and get all deduction-y on him. – **_**MoreThingsInHeavenAndEarth.**

_Sixteen._

Now the alcohol was beginning to leave his system a bit, it started to occur to him to be slightly scared. The mysterious man who'd offered him a lift home in his car had been completely silent during the journey. He had simply smiled benignly, tapping his umbrella against his foot in a gentle rhythm. He'd stared out of the window as if Darren hadn't been in the car at all, even when he had attempted to give him his address.

And then they hadn't driven home; they'd driven here. The voice that commanded him to get out of the car and go into the factory didn't leave any room for refusing. Darren wondered whether he'd be able to fight off the man. He was tall and broad but he looked fairly old. He still doubted he'd be able to beat him though.

He was slightly relieved that the factory floor was brightly lit, and more so that there appeared to be at least two other people here, though there were an alarming amount of machines about that looked dangerous. The smell of sawdust in the air was soothing. The two other men were not.

Darren stood there, trying, and failing, to look physically able. Like the sort of man you wouldn't like to be up against in a fight.

Like the man to his right, for example. He was old, and grey haired and was just leaning against a workbench. He looked completely ordinary, like someone's Dad, and was dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. He also, however, gave the impression that he could drop a person to the floor with one left-hook and he wouldn't even strain himself doing it. He was looking at Darren now with bemusement.

Darren looked away from him and towards the second man. There was nothing suggesting any sort of amusement in this man. He was scowling and staring at Darren. He was tall and thin but seemed wiry rather than frail. He seemed wired too; like he was struggling to rein in his emotions. He looked, to be frank, psychotic.

Darren swallowed. No one, as yet, had said anything or done anything. They were just... staring at him.

"Who are you?" he asked, wishing that his voice could be just a touch more stable and calm.

"We're friend's of Scarlet's." A voice whispered in his ear. He shot across the room but stopped himself before he got too close to the madman. He had no idea that the umbrella man was so close to him. He wondered, briefly, how someone who looked so much like a 1920s banker could be so utterly menacing.

He looked with wide eyes towards the other two of them. The madman was still stood completely still and scowling so he turned towards the vaguely normal looking man with what he knew must be a pleading look on his face. He'd long since lost any pretence that he wasn't about to wet himself with fear.

"Don't look at me, mate," the old man said, "I'm just here to make sure things don't get out of hand." He smiled at him.

"I've called the police." Darren stuttered. "In the car."

"No you didn't." The banker returned with a frown. "What an extraordinary lie, given the fact that I was next to you the whole time."

"Besides which," the madman said, "Mycroft would have lifted your phone before you even got into the car."

"I did." Mycroft said, holding it up.

"Besides which," the madman continued, "I made sure that the police were fully represented at this meeting. Show him your badge, Lestrade."

Lestrade didn't, but he waved at Darren, gently. "Like I say, I'm here to make sure things don't go too far."

"What things?" Darren said in a whisper. He turned to the madman. "Who are you?"

The tall man leant forward slightly. "I'm Scarlet's stepfather." He said quietly.

"Sherlock?" Darren whispered.

Sherlock smiled. There wasn't a trace of humour in it. "Hello!" he said.

"I'm not... I'm not seeing her any more, if that's what you're worried about." Darren stammered out.

"Nooooo," Sherlock responded. "I imagine that's why you're out this evening, getting pissed with your mates, and why she's at home crying in her room."

Darren stared. "I didn't! I didn't mean to make her cry!" He was almost in tears himself.

"You were unsuccessful." Sherlock told him.

"What are you going to do to me?" Darren wailed.

"My brother here is going to ask you a question." Sherlock answered. Darren spun round again to look at Mycroft who had once again managed to get strangely close to him.

"I want you to imagine a world where you don't exist. Certainly, you remain corporeal. Certainly, you still need food and shelter, but your address, your name; all records relating to you are gone. Just vanished. You're a living ghost; a non person. No national insurance number means no job, no NHS number means no help when you're injured or ill, no passport, no bank account, no driving license that I know you've worked so hard to obtain. Nothing; all of it gone. Can you imagine it, Darren? Could you envisage how you would live in this world without any of that? My question to you, Darren, is do you think I have the power to do such a thing to you?"

Darren stared. He had absolutely no doubt at all that this man would be able to do this to him. He was also beginning to wonder if that last pint he'd sunk was about to make a re-appearance, so he didn't speak, he just nodded his head, slowly.

"Good." Sherlock said. "Well, I suggest then that you'd better look forward to that happening, because if you ever, ever go near Scarlet again, and if I get to you before he does, I will scalp you. And don't doubt that I can do it; I've been practising at the morgue."

Darren looked at him, blinking. "Um, I wasn't going to see Scarlet again." He said. "I thought that was why you were cross?"

Mycroft and Sherlock stared at each other for a moment. They seemed to simultaneously realise that there was a plot point here that they'd both missed slightly.

There was a certain amount of coughing and throat clearing.

"Well..." Mycroft said.

"Good." Sherlock said. "As long as we're all completely clear. Just as long as you know you will never, ever hurt her again." He leaned in close. Darren found himself praying that when he threw up it wouldn't hit this man. He really didn't want to make him any angrier.

There was a sudden shout from the doorway. "What the bloody hell's going on here!"

Darren almost fainted with relief. It was Scarlet's Dad, and though he looked hugely angry it didn't appear to be directed at him.

"What the _hell..._" He yelled at them. "For God's sake he's just a kid!"

Through a slight haze, Darren was vaguely aware that there was a certain amount of feet shuffling going on. However frightening these other people might appear, they all seemed completely cowed by Scarlet's Dad. He briefly thought to himself, that Scarlet's Dad, was rock. He'd have liked to have voiced this thought to the man himself but he couldn't speak. Instead John told him to sit down before he fell down and pushed him into a chair. He was then promptly ignored while John continued scolding the others.

"For Heaven's sake, Mycroft, I'd have expected better from... well, I'd have expected better from you, Greg, at any rate."

"Mm." Lestrade agreed. "Sorry. It was just... well, I was invited."

John stared at him blankly wondering quite how starved of a social life Lestrade was since his marriage had failed. He shook himself.

"He's just a kid, Greg." He said.

Lestrade looked embarrassed.

"You're angry." Sherlock stated, flatly.

"Of _course_ I'm angry, you stupid, stupid man!" John yelled at him. "My daughter is at home, upset and needs cheering up, but I can't be there with her because my fuckwit of a partner thinks it's appropriate to kidnap and terrorise a seventeen year old!"

In the silence that followed this three grown men appeared to find their shoes absolutely _fascinating_.

"He made Scarlet cry, John." Sherlock said, sullenly.

"Yes he did, Sherlock," John retorted, "It's life, it happens, it's not going to be helped by all of this! He's not the first boy in history to inadvertently make a girl cry. Life continues, we all pick ourselves up and maybe learn something and we carry on. Surely you must remember..." He trailed off staring at Sherlock, then narrowed his eyes. "This has never happened to you, has it? You've never had someone dump you."

Sherlock stared at the wall for a bit. When it was clear he wasn't going to get an answer, John continued. "Well allow me to educate you, Sherlock, this happens, it's part of life, it's painful but everyone gets over it eventually. And if it makes you feel any happier, I'm fairly sure that at some point Scarlet will make someone else cry. Because it's _life. _It _happens."_

"She made Mark Peterson cry last year." Darren helpfully put in. "He asked her to the fifth year prom and she laughed when she said no." He looked at them looking at him. "Mark is a bit wet though," he admitted, "and I think he only asked her as a dare."

John looked at him, then nodded. "Well then, there you go. Come on, Darren, I'm taking you home." He hooked a hand under Darren's arm and started walking him towards the door.

"How did you know we were here?" Mycroft suddenly asked, with a frown.

"Anthea called me." John replied over his shoulder. "Thank God someone I know has more than one working brain cell." He muttered.

"I resent that!" Sherlock called back. "I'm very clever!"

"I'm cleverer." Mycroft instantly by reflex, though he hoped he'd been quiet enough for John not to hear him.

"Whatever!" John called, holding a hand up as he went through the door.

The three remaining men stared at the walls for a moment.

"Well," Lestrade said, "I noticed a nice looking pub on the corner. I don't know about you two but I could certainly do with a pint."

Mycroft coughed. "Yes, well I suppose it could be interesting." He said with a slight sneer. Only very slight though; he didn't want anyone to suggest he didn't come if he didn't want to.

"Fine." Sherlock snapped.

"Right then." Said Lestrade, happily.

They all walked off towards the door.


	28. University

**Not sure there's a prompt on this one though I have a vague feeling someone mentioned something about going to university quite early on (sorry, I've saved all the prompts on my other computer). If not; I guess it's one of mine.**

**

* * *

**_Eighteen_

Scarlet walked into the kitchen and assessed the situation. The mood was tense. The kitchen was crowded. When she entered, the conversation had stopped. She sighed.

"Seriously; if you lot can't work it out between yourselves, I'm more than happy to catch the train and go down there by myself."

Three of the four men looked mildly embarrassed. John just smiled at her, knowing it was a fairly empty threat.

"Yeah, and how do you reckon you'll get the mountain of clothing that you're insisting on taking with you down there?" he asked her.

Scarlet smiled back. "I'll courier it to myself." She said. "Or an even better idea; I'll leave it all here and buy a new mountain in Brighton."

She wandered through to the living room and all three men watched her go.

Mycroft repeated the only argument he had; the argument that he was sticking to like gum to a shoe. "You don't have a car – you'll have to borrow my car and my driver, and therefore me." He hoped they wouldn't spot the minor logical flaw in his argument.

"I'm definitely going." Sherlock said.

"I'm more than happy to hire a car and drive her there myself." John said. "To be honest, I think Scarlet would be more comfortable with that."

"I'm definitely going." Sherlock said.

"Well, yes, I suppose we could take Scarlet's views into account," Mycroft said, in a tone that suggested he knew that wouldn't go well for him, "but we mustn't lose sight of the fact that she's still very young and she doesn't always know what's best for her."

"Really?" John asked. "I've found in recent years that she's more than capable of knowing what's best for herself. In fact, there have been a number of occasions I can think of when she was by far the most sensible person in the room."

"I'm going." Said Sherlock. "And none of you can stop me."

"We know, Sherlock." Said John, tiredly. "For the purposes of this discussion I'm assuming that the three people who are definitely driving to Brighton on Friday are Me, You and Scarlet. Assuming we don't all piss her off to such a degree that she gets onto a train and goes on her own."

"And me." Said Mycroft. "And you can use my car. "

"Mycroft, regardless of how wedded to this idea you are, I really feel that three people in a hired car would be more comfortable than four people and a driver in a private sedan."

"What about if I upgraded us to a limousine?" Mycroft asked.

"No!" John said. "I'm not having Scarlet arrive at university for the first time in a limo! She really doesn't want to draw attention to herself."

"That's true." Lestrade said, "And she wouldn't want the limo to distract from her hair in any way."

They all smiled. Scarlet's latest experiment with her hair was to bleach it platinum white, with the tips died dark pink. John had long since stopped querying her hair choices. Besides which, he had to admit that it looked quite good.

"Right then," John said, "so what will happen is that I will hire a car, I will drive Scarlet to Brighton, and Sherlock will come with us because I can't face the consequences of leaving him behind. Mycroft; while I appreciate the offer of the car and driver, I don't want to take you up on it."

"Of course you might find that all the hire cars in London are unavailable on Friday." Mycroft suddenly said. "Stranger things have happened."

John looked at him with narrowed eyes. "You wouldn't…" he said. But he rather suspected he would.

"You could borrow my car." Lestrade kindly offered.

"Really?" Said John. "Thank you."

"Of course there'd be room for two of us in the back quite comfortably…" Lestrade went on.

"You want to come too?" John said, blankly.

"Well, y'know," Lestrade said, looking embarrassed, "I like Brighton."

John looked at him helplessly. "Greg, that's just weird."

"Well if he's going, I'm definitely going." Mycroft instantly said. "After all, I am a blood relative rather than just an honorary uncle."

John stared at him like he was out of his mind. "No, you're really not!" he said. "Despite all appearances to the contrary, Scarlet does not have two genetic Fathers!"

Mycroft stared for a moment then seemed to realise. He coloured slightly. "I still have the greater claim." He mumbled.

"OK, good, well while Mycroft goes and brushes up on his knowledge of human reproduction, I'm going to go and rent a suitable car." John said. "If anyone, not Sherlock, is making tea; I'd love a cup." He left the room.

"Would it be a nice idea for us to visit her, do you think?" Mycroft asked. "I just think that maybe she might get a bit lonely down there by herself."

"There will be other people at the university." Lestrade pointed out while he filled the kettle. "Probably other people living in her halls."

"Yeah, well she won't know them well yet." Sherlock said. "She knows us; she might be happy to see a familiar face."

"It might make it less stressful for her." Mycroft agreed. "We should definitely visit her soon. What about Saturday evening? She won't have anything planned for then."

"Should we run it by John?" Lestrade wondered.

"He'd say no." Sherlock pointed out. "He's convinced that she wants to make her own way, find her own friends, have her own social life. Poor deluded fool."

"I simply can't understand why he's letting her go so far!" Mycroft complained. "There are plenty of good art schools, in fact _better_ art schools right here in London!"

"Well I suppose it's not that far." Lestrade pointed out. "It's just an hour down the M23."

"It's too far for her to commute." Mycroft grumbled. "And it's an ex-polytechnic."

"Yes, but not so far for her to be visited regularly. If someone was just passing, for example." Lestrade returned.

"Good point." Mycroft conceded.

"And she'll do well regardless of the quality of the establishment." Sherlock said.

As John came back into the kitchen the conversation stopped and they all looked at him.

"What?" He asked. "Oh, I just thought I'd mention, you're not allowed to visit Scarlet in the first month unless she expressly requests it. It's part of the terms and conditions."

"The what?" Sherlock asked.

"The terms and conditions. We have agreed in advance that Scarlet will come hope during reading week if I can assure her that there will be no surprise visits during the first month. She will Skype once a week on Sunday at 3:00, and will call me daily at 6:00 or thereabout, as long as she doesn't get bombarded by phone calls during the rest of the time. She will happily receive texts," Sherlock smiled at this, "but not phone calls unless there's something important to tell her."

"Did she define 'important'?" Mycroft enquired.

"She did." John responded. "Births, deaths, new jobs…"

"New cases?" Sherlock cut in.

"No. But she will respond to emails in a timely fashion."

"Facebook?" Sherlock asked.

"No. She's keeping that friends only." He looked at their downcast faces. "Look, she's not being unreasonable. She just wants a little bit of space, a bit of privacy, and a bit of an opportunity to live her own life for a bit."

"And you agreed all of this?" Sherlock said, angrily. "Without even asking me?"

"Look," said John, "she had a slight concern, and I don't know why she would have been concerned about this, that certain people might become a little… stalkerish, while she's trying to settle down in Brighton. She asked if I could help… restrain anyone who might be of that ilk. So I suggested that if she called and contacted regularly, there would be absolutely no need for anyone to drive down there on a Saturday evening to check on her."

They all looked downcast. John sighed.

"OK," he said, "does anyone here think that she shouldn't be allowed to have her own life?"

"Well, no." Lestrade answered.

"Of course not." Mycroft agreed.

John looked at Sherlock. "Sherlock?" he demanded.

"Fine!" he snapped.

"Look!" John said to him, with his anger just beginning to show, "I don't want her to go either, well I do, but I also wish she could stay here forever; I will miss her, I will be worried about her, but I know that that's selfish and wrong and she needs this, so I'm going to help her. I would really, really appreciate some support with that." He stopped and rubbed his face for a moment. "Right, we're out of milk, I'm going to buy some." He left.

Sherlock stared at the table for a few moments while Mycroft stared at him and Lestrade shifted uncomfortably.

After a moment, Mycroft spoke. "Do you think she'd notice a very small spycam?"

oOo

_Friday._

The car was nice and the drive was uneventful. It took a while to find the right Halls and to find a place to park, but eventually Scarlet had in her possession a key to her room and between the three of them they'd managed to get all her luggage in fine.

"There's no sea-view." Sherlock said.

"Well, I know the sea's out there somewhere." Scarlet replied. "I'm sure I'll find it eventually. I'm more concerned that the wardrobe's a bit small."

They worked round each other, trying to get things vaguely straight, but mostly getting under each other's feet. It became clear that John and Sherlock should leave but no-one wanted to make the suggestion.

There was a knock on the door and a girl appeared.

"Hi." She said. "I'm Emma. I'm next door."

"Scarlet." Scarlet said. "I'm, well, here."

"I know it's a bit rude, but I was wondering if you'd brought any tea. I forgot and I'm gasping."

Scarlet dug a box from her rucksack and handed it over.

"Thanks." Said Emma. "I'll buy the next box. Good hair by the way."

"Thanks. Good boots!" Scarlet replied. "Could you stick some water in the kettle for me?"

When Emma left, Scarlet turned to the others.

"You can't trust her, Scarlet. She's taken recreational drugs." Sherlock told her instantly.

"Sherlock!" she protested.

"And she smokes. Don't start smoking, Scarlet." He told her. "Dammit, there's so much I've forgotten to tell you." He started pacing the room. It was quite small so he was mostly just spinning while John and Scarlet watched him in an amused fashion. He suddenly stopped and turned to her. "OK, remember to eat. I know you're young and you think you don't need to, but you do need to refuel sometimes."

"OK." She said.

"Now food. If you're going to a Chinese restaurant, look at the door handle; the bottom third should be tarnished. Not clean! Remember that; not clean, but tarnished. Same applies to Thai, but for a curry house you'll need to check the door lintel."

"OK, Sherlock." She said.

"Don't forget you're allergic to celery." He said.

She smiled and stood on her tiptoes to pull him into a hug. "I'll be fine, Sherlock." She told him, and kissed him gently on the cheek.

She turned to John.

"Thanks for driving me down here, Dad." She said. He just hugged her.

"Look after yourself." He said into her hair. "If you need anything, anything at all, just call. It doesn't matter what time, I'll wake up."

"Thanks." She said heavily.

He let her go. "You'll be brilliant." He told her. "You'll have a fantastic time."

"Thanks, Dad." She said.

John pulled Sherlock from the room.

They walked silently down the stairs and back to the car.

"So that was it?" Sherlock asked.

"Yep." John said.

"Are you all right?" Sherlock asked him gently.

"Yep." John said.

As they got to the car, both their phones beeped.

The identical texts read: _'Am drinking tea with Emma. SW.'_

They smiled and got into the car. Their phones beeped again.

'_I miss you. See you soon. SW x'_

_

* * *

_**Not sure about this one myself. I seem to have gone a bit wobbly in the middle.**

**Anyone up for a teeny bit of angst in the next one? Have a couple of potentials; one from MoreThingsInHeavenAndEarth where Scarlet learns about Sherlock's drug history, and one of my own where she gets badly hurt by a criminal of some description. Not sure how the latter one's going to play out at the moment though. I will try to weave some funny into both.**


	29. Surprise Visit

**First of all, I didn't mean to make so many of you anxious about university. Seriously; it rocks. It even rocked for me with my complete inability to recognise faces and places and high level of social anxiety. If I can love it, I suspect most people can. Work hard, play safely, you'll all be fine. **

**Also you've all made me feel really, really old. Thanks. :-)**

**On that note, I don't know what all the '3's mean in the comments – I'm assuming something good?**

**The overwhelming consensus seems to be for not hurting Scarlet (you're right, I'm not actually sure how I'd have made it work), but finding out about the drug habit should happen at some point this weekend. I've got a corker of a 'getting engaged' chapter in my head too, and I still want to write the Christmas episode but that's morphed in my mind a bit so I'll have to see if I can pin it down. What I'm actually looking for at the moment is something of Scarlet when she's 9 or 10. I've got a lot of 'little' and lots of teens upwards, but nothing in the middle. I'm going to go back over old prompts this afternoon.  
**

**This chapter was really just to say all of that ^ but this comment from Happy Reader 007: **_**her birthday at Uni and them all turning up with John there hanging his head trying to pull them back. She could meet them while they are on their way into halls with her friends...**_

**Made me think of this little snippet.**

**

* * *

**_Nineteen._

Scarlet and Emma were sat in Emma's slightly larger room, surrounded by scraps of fabrics of different colours and textures. Emma was pulling them out of a large box between them and they were sorting them into different piles.

"What do you think of this one?" Emma asked. It was a thin blue gauze with gold patterning on it.

"Gorgeous, but too sheer for the patchwork."

Emma stared at it a while, seeming reluctant to discard it. Finally she flung it into a pile. "I'll use it for something else I'm sure." She said. "God I love ebay."

"Ebay, is indeed fabulous." Scarlet agreed.

There was a knock on the door and Aidan popped his head in.

"Guys, there's a fight going on downstairs."

Emma looked up instantly. "Students?" she asked.

"Dull." Said Scarlet, pulling another scrap from the box.

"Not students, there are a bunch of pensioners screaming at each other. Everyone's watching; come on."

"Come on Scar!" said Emma, standing up and trying to pull Scarlet out.

Scarlet gave in and got to her feet grumbling. "God you people must be starved for entertainment."

oOo

The small pebble of anxiety that Scarlet had been trying to ignore on the way down the stairs turned into a boulder as soon as she got out to the street. Four very familiar faces were frowning and snarling at each other, seemingly oblivious to the small crowd of students gathered round them to watch.

John was standing close to Sherlock and was yelling up at him.

"I said no surprise visits!" John yelled.

"You said not for the first month!" Sherlock responded. "It's not the first month and it's her birthday!"

"Why didn't you just ask!" John demanded.

"She'd have said no!" Sherlock responded as if this was completely logical and obvious.

Lestrade, who was facing the door cleared his throat. "Er, guys?" he said. When the others looked at him he nodded at Scarlet. She was standing just outside the door, head down, pinching the bridge of her nose.

"Scar, are you all right?" Aidan asked her, concerned.

"Scarlet?" John said to her.

"You know these people?" Aidan asked.

Scarlet sighed and looked up. She pointed at the four men individually. "Dad, Step-dad, Step-dad's creepy older brother, random dude who inexplicably likes all of them and just hangs around."

"Hi!" Said Lestrade. The other's just stared, silently.

"Guys, this is Emma, she's my next door neighbour and this is Aidan, my…"

She was cut off as Sherlock flung himself at the boy, pushing him against the wall.

"You're sleeping with her!" He snarled.

"Sherlock! Stop it!" Scarlet cried, trying to pull him off.

John and Lestrade pulled him away.

He scowled. "I'm not happy about this!" he said.

"I don't care!" Scarlet told him. She turned round to Aidan. "Are you OK?" she asked. He nodded. "Listen, I'm sorry about him. I'd like to say he's not always like that, but he is. He's… an acquired taste. But I love him."

Aidan had been looking her intently during this. She stood there in front of him with her heart in her mouth. He nodded again, and then gently stepped round her and held his hand out to John.

"I'm pleased to meet you, sir." He said.

John smiled, amused, as he shook his hand. "You too."

Aidan held his hand out to Sherlock. "I'm pleased you meet you too."

Sherlock stared at the hand for a long time before taking it. It was a curt shake, but Aidan was not to be put off.

"A few of us are going out for a Chinese tonight." Aidan said. "It's just the four of us; would you like me to see if they can add four extra to the booking?"

"What's the door-handle like?" Sherlock asked.

Aidan frowned, but Scarlet answered "Tarnished." She took hold of Aidan's hand and looked defiantly at Sherlock.

"Fine." Sherlock said.

"Scarlet, we're happy to go home if that's what you'd prefer." John told her.

"No, it's fine. It's actually quite nice to see you. Come in, we'll have a cup of tea and then we'll go for a meal. But you must take them home with you afterwards. You're all far too old for the club."

John snorted as they all followed her into the building.

* * *

**Thanks once again for all the comments! It's really nice to see and always cheers me up immensely and when I'm cheerful I write more and it's not so angsty, and when I write more funny stuff, I'm happier… it's a delightful circle that I can't get enough of.**

**Oh and you're right; Scarlet really needs a female in her life. I'm thinking of giving Greg a partner. I think he deserves one.  
**


	30. Drugs

**Please note; this chapter deals with the topic of drug use. The act itself is not described in any detail, or indeed at all, but views and opinions about drug use are given. If this is likely to be upsetting or offensive to you on any level, please do not read this chapter. I can assure you that the next one will be delightful, fluffy nonsense, so come back for that, because I'll miss you.**

**The other thing I have to say is that the characters of John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, Lestrade and Mycroft Holmes in this incarnation are not owned by me. Obviously, the words here are put into their mouths by me as I have interpreted their characters. None of the views here reflect the views of anyone connected to the BBC series Sherlock.**

**The character of Scarlet Watson is all mine, but she is not **_**me**_**. Her opinions are those that I thought she might have at fifteen.**

**Basically all of the views here are the views of the characters. Clearly there is going to be a part of me in that, but I'm also quite capable of making stuff up and writing what I think a character might say. I'm not looking to enter into a debate on drugs is what I'm saying.**

**Ooo. That was heavy. But I mean it.**

**I thought this prompt was so good when I first got it that I'm giving it to you in full.**

_**Maybe when Scarlet is about 15 she has some kind of drugs project to do in biology/PSE and John is really cagey because she's talking to Sherlock about it, without knowing about his past and then Sherlock ends up telling Scarlet about it.**_** – MoreThingsInHeavenAndEarth**

**Fabulous, fabulous idea. Being me, I've twisted it slightly to fit the characters in my head, but I remember thinking at the time that it is a marvellous idea and I wish I'd have thought of it first. Though I love all my prompts equally, just like I do my children.**

* * *

_Fifteen_

Scarlet was in a mood. John could see she was in a mood and though he didn't want to tread on eggshells around her, he was trying hard not to aggravate her. She was clearly trying hard not to lose her temper too. They'd finished eating and he offered to wash up.

"It's my turn." Scarlet told him.

"I know, I was just offering to help, that's all." He told her.

"I don't need help." She snapped.

"OK then." He wandered through to the lounge. Five minutes later there was the sound of a crash and Scarlet yelping and then swearing.

"What's happened?" He asked, quickly heading back through to her.

"Nothing!" She snapped. "I broke a glass that's all."

He could see her hand was bleeding from a deep gash across her palm, her blood mingling with hot-water and soap suds.

"Scarlet, you've cut yourself. Let me have a look at it." He told her.

"I don't need help." She said stubbornly. She was crying tears that she refused to acknowledge.

"Yes you do." He said patiently. "Let me bandage it up and you can finish the washing up afterwards." He hoped to raise a smile. He didn't.

He pushed the drooping girl down onto a kitchen chair and grabbed the first aid kit from the cupboard. "Let me look." He said taking her hand.

He cleaned her hand, checked carefully for any hidden shards of glass and then pressed a soft, sterile pad and a gauze bandage, still rolled up, onto the wound and held them there firmly with his thumb. She continued refusing to comment on her tears, but seemed unable to stop crying.

"Scarlet," He gently said, "what's wrong?"

Her face crumpled. "Jodie's brother died." She said.

"I remember Jodie; she came over with Serene once didn't she?" John said calmly.

Scarlet nodded and wiped her eyes on her sleeve.

"How did he die?" John asked her.

She sniffed. "He overdosed. I don't know what on. He'd been taking all sorts for ages. Jodie's been worried for ages." She wiped her eyes again. "Selfish shit!" she said angrily.

John didn't reply.

"I can't believe anyone would be so selfish! He had a Mum and brothers and sisters, and just because he wanted a good time for a bit he took drugs and now he's dead and his whole family is messed up. Selfish, selfish, selfish! I swear if I find out any of my friends have ever taken any drugs ever, I'm never speaking to them again; they aren't worth it."

"Well yes, that's one way of dealing with it I suppose." John said. He lifted the gauze and the pad and looked at the cut. "Good news; this won't need stitching. I'll just bandage it tightly." He started to do so.

"Don't you think that drug addicts are selfish and stupid?" Scarlet asked him.

"Well," John said, "I think for one thing not everyone who's ever taken recreational drugs is an addict. It is possible to use something once or twice and never use them again. At parties, at university, these things are there and people are curious. It's perhaps not sensible, it's not legal, but I think it would be a mistake to assume that if someone's taken something once or twice, it's all that person ever is."

"But drugs are addictive." She said blankly.

"Yes they are. And I think that a person is stupid if they take drugs assuming they'll be immune to the addiction, and I think that many people, possibly most people, underestimate how hard stopping again will be. But I still think it's unfair to classify anyone who's ever taken drugs as selfish. Stupid, or at least misguided maybe, but selfish... I'm less sure about. In general, I think it's unfair to assume you know what somebody's motives are based on their actions."

She didn't answer but kicked the table leg sullenly.

"Scarlet, why do you think someone takes drugs? Do you think it's always for a good time?"

"Isn't' that the point?" She asked him.

"Yes, perhaps on some levels, the point of these drugs are to make you feel in some way different, or at least better. But why do you think someone would want to feel different?"

She frowned at him.

"OK," he said, "let me explain differently. You live here quite happily. You have me and Sherlock to take care of you and to amuse you. You know where you'll be going to school tomorrow, you know what sorts of things you want to happen in the future. You have things to look forward to. If you didn't have any of that. If instead you felt worried or frightened all the time. If you didn't have an awful lot to look forward to and even in the immediate future, you were more likely to experience pain and hurt than something joyful... what do you think you might try to do with that life?"

She thought for a while. "I'd want to escape it. I'd want to change it."

"Well there you go. That's one reason. It's not the only reason, and yes, I know lots of people take drugs for 'a good time', but that's not all of there is to it." John finished tying the bandage and he sat back and studied her. She was frowning slightly.

"But those people aren't changing their lives." She said to him. "If anything, they're staying exactly where they are."

"Yes that's true." John agreed. "But sometimes it's easier to change how you feel about something than the thing itself. I think in a lot of cases, it can seem as if that's the only option you have."

Scarlet sat in silence for a while.

"Have you ever... tried anything?" She asked him, tentatively. He got the impression she was worried about what his answer might be.

"Nope, I never have. But not because I think that drugs are evil and all people who use them are evil."

"Then why not?"

"Because while they're not evil, they are unpredictable. It's not always easy to know how you're going to react to something, even if you've taken it before. And worse than that, while drugs are unregulated, you don't even know _what_ you're taking. And though you might not become addicted and you might react in just the way you expect, they will be doing you harm. The more drugs you do, the more harm they do. To be honest, I've never found it worth the risk." He sighed. "And, to be honest, I think I've been fairly lucky that I've never felt that need to take drugs. I have drunk to excess from time to time. I'm not proud of it, but I'm not ashamed either."

"But alcohol isn't the same." Scarlet said to him.

"Isn't it?" He asked her. "If recreational drugs were legal, would there be any difference at all?"

They could hear Sherlock coming in from outside.

"No." She said quietly. "Well I don't know. Maybe?"

He smiled at her. "Yeah, that particular debate has gone on for decades, so don't feel you need to solve it tonight."

Sherlock came into the kitchen. "What debate? Is there any tea? What are you talking about?" He opened the fridge. "Have we got any food?"

"'Are recreational drugs comparable to alcohol?' I'll put the kettle on, we're talking about drugs, and there's Shepherd's pie keeping warm for you in the cooker."

Sherlock shut the fridge and slowly turned to face Scarlet.

"Don't take drugs." He said to her, calmly, but with the undertones of stress. "Please, Scarlet, it's just not worth the risk."

She smiled at him. "That's what Dad says."

"Good. He's right." He sat down at the table where John put down a plate of food and he started to eat it.

"Have you ever tried anything?" Scarlet asked him.

He put his cutlery down again and stared at her. He looked at John who just shrugged at him.

"Yes." He finally told her. "Yes, a long time ago. On occasion. Not for years though."

Her eyes widened at him. "What did you take? And why?"

He looked down at his food. "I'm sorry, Scarlet, but I don't want to talk about it."

She was startled. "Oh, sorry... I didn't mean..." She blushed furiously.

"That doesn't mean you won't have questions." Sherlock said quietly, partly to himself. After a deep sigh he went on. "If you want to know, you should ask Mycroft and Lestrade. They knew me best then and they'll tell you anything you want to know."

"I don't want to if it will upset you." Scarlet said quickly.

"It won't." He said shortly.

She suspected he was lying but nodded anyway.

oOo

Two days later, she was following Sherlock through the offices at Scotland Yard. He knocked on Lestrade's office door. He was in conference with Inspector Donovan but waved them in anyway.

"Hello, Freak." Sally said. "Are you here to put us all right again?" she asked sarcastically.

"Actually Scarlet and I have come in on a more social visit." He told her. "You've met John's daughter haven't you?"

Sally stared at her, wide eyed, for a moment while Scarlet, wide eyed, stared back.

"Well, I've got work to do." Sally finally stuttered before hastily leaving.

"How are you, Scarlet?" Lestrade asked her. Scarlet noted that he had an honest smile and twinkly eyes.

"I'm fine." She said, shyly.

"Right, well, I'll leave you two alone then." Sherlock said before darting out the door.

"Wait! What?" Lestrade said, panicked. Sherlock didn't return.

Scarlet stood in the office and scuffed one shoe against the other. "I was asking him about when he took drugs." She told Lestrade by way of explanation. "He didn't want to tell me but said you would."

Lestrade gaped at her.

"Not just you; Mycroft too. He says it's OK, but I'm not sure that it is."

"Well," said Lestrade. "I suppose that if he said it was fine then we have to take him at his word." He smiled at her in a worried fashion. "Would you like a coffee? Or a... milk?"

She smiled. "I'm fine, thanks."

"Well, sit down." She did as she was told. "What was it, exactly, that you wanted to know?"

"I don't really know." She said honestly. "Did he take... lots of stuff? All the time? Dad said that not everyone gets addicted, so did Sherlock? Anything really... I'm a bit worried about it. Dad said sometimes people take drugs to escape life; was that what he was doing? What was he escaping? If it's OK to tell me all that."

Greg opened and closed his mouth a few times. He sighed. "OK, well I'm not sure I can tell you all of that, because I'm not sure I know all of that. I know that when I first knew your... Sherlock, it was about five years before he met your Dad. At that time, I know he was taking cocaine fairly regularly. Cocaine's a stimulant; people take it to try to speed up rather than slow down. I think he might have taken other stuff, but cocaine was the one that he considered 'his' drug of choice. He took it regularly enough for me to be worried about him."

"How did you meet?" She asked. "Did you have to arrest him?"

Greg smiled. "No. He had a con-man holed up at his flat and the officer sent to arrest him was a bit worried about the situations so called me in. Sherlock seemed to take a shine to me and started stalking me a bit. He had a habit of turning up at crime scenes where I was working, hacking into my emails, that sort of thing."

"And he was on drugs then?" She asked.

"No. Well, not that first day anyway, he almost certainly taken stuff before though. On that first day though, I had no idea he was interested in that sort of thing. I just thought he as a very, _very_ intelligent kid who had all this energy and this... intelligence but absolutely no idea what to do with it. In some ways I was right, and in some ways I was wrong."

"He was just a kid?" Scarlet asked with a frown.

"Oh no, he wasn't. I thought he was because he looked ridiculously young. It turned out later that he was twenty-three. So compared to me he was a kid." He smiled, remembering.

"So how did you find out about the drugs?" She asked.

"Well, like I say, at first Sherlock would pester me if he thought I was doing something that might be interesting. The thing is, I noticed that he was helpful. He was arrogant and annoying and he really upset some of the other officers, but he was a useful person to have around. He got the job done. So after about a year or so I noticed it had somehow stopped being him following me around, but me asking for him. Now Sherlock has always said that he only ever takes, or took drugs when he's bored. And that's fine. Well, it's not really fine, Scarlet, you shouldn't take drugs, but what I meant was, when he was bored and shooting up it didn't matter to anyone but him. The thing is, he didn't know when a case might come up, so he might not be... ready for it if you see what I mean. It didn't happen often, but occasionally he would be... erratic at a scene. Unusually difficult with the police I had there, or particularly uncaring about scene-contamination. Not little things like not wearing the right protective suit, but moving things, picking up evidence with his bare hands, taking stuff away without telling me first. Things that he'd never, ever do if he had access to all his brain."

He looked at her frowning at him and tried to clarify. "OK, in fact he would do all of that, but when he was on drugs it was because he didn't care and couldn't think. Now he just does it because he's an arrogant sod. There was one time he turned up clearly as high as a kite and that was one time too many." He sighed. "Is any of this making any sense?" he asked her.

She nodded slowly, and then bit her lip. "He gets bored a lot, doesn't he?" she said quietly.

"Yes, I think he does." Lestrade answered. He noticed the worried look on her face. "I am fairly sure he's not using drugs now though. He's not the same as he was then. I know he'd cut down massively before he even met your Dad, and more so afterwards, and since you were born... certainly, I'd stake my whole life on him not having taken anything since you and your Dad moved in with him. Apart from anything else, if he did and your Dad found out, he'd kill him. Or he'd move you out again, and that would be even worse." He smiled at her in what he hoped was a reassuring fashion.

"Why did he stop?" She asked him. "Or why did he cut down at any rate; from what you said he was pretty bad, but then stopped. Was he just not addicted after all?"

"I don't know; that's for smarter people for me to answer." He told her. "But it did get pretty bad and eventually I had a fight with him over it." She stared at him, but didn't speak. "Yeah, well I'm not proud of it, and I'm fairly sure that a better person would have handled it better, but the end result was that I banned him from working with us at all unless he was drug free. I wasn't intending to babysit him the whole time to make sure he didn't pick up a needle, but I made it clear that he couldn't attend a scene at all if he was using so if he didn't want to miss out, he'd have to leave it all behind. I didn't see him for a while after that, but then a few months on he worked with us and seemed to be better. The case after that he turned up with your Dad."

He looked at her. She was sat back on her chair and seemed to be looking at something a long way away.

"Scarlet, are you OK?" he asked.

"Mm. Yes." She looked at him. "Sorry. I was just thinking... it must feel awful."

"What?"

"I mean; to feel so bored that you don't think you can do anything about it without drugs. I can't imagine feeling that way."

Lestrade smiled at her. "Wow." He said. "You're your Dad's girl through and through aren't you?"

She smiled. "Sherlock's too." She told him. "And I think there's probably some of Mum in there too. And I have no idea where I get the whole 'daydreaming' thing from."

He laughed.

They talked some more about cases that John and Sherlock had walked on. She was laughing with him when Sherlock reappeared at the door.

"Are you finished here?" he asked her. He looked worried about something but she couldn't think what that might be. She was overloaded with information.

"Yes." She said and stood up to come with him.

On the way out she passed Sally. She faltered for a moment then turned round to talk to her.

"That's not a nice thing to call someone." She said sharply, wishing that she didn't blush so easily.

Sally looked at her and frowned. "I'm sorry?"

"You called him 'Freak'. That's not nice, and he isn't one anyhow. He's a bit unusual, it's true, but most people are in some way or another, and at least he's honest about it." She didn't wait for an answer but turned away and walked on to where Sherlock was waiting for her.

Neither of them mentioned this to the other.

oOo

The next stop was Mycroft. Scarlet absorbed everything as she was ushered through a metal detector, then along a chequerboard floor and wood panelled corridors. Eventually they came to a medium sized office with a leather sofa, a large desk, and Mycroft in it.

Mycroft smiled in what he hoped was an avuncular fashion. Mostly he came across as 'creepy' but Scarlet was prepared for it so forgave him.

"Right, I'll leave you alone." Sherlock said again, and tried to leave.

"Sherlock, you can't just wander freely around the building." Mycroft told him. Sherlock seemed to take the point and stopped.

"Well I can't be here." He said.

Mycroft rolled his eyes and sighed. "Fine." He said and pressed an old fashioned intercom button on his desk. "Anthea, could you possible remove and attend my brother for a while?"

Anthea appeared at the door and with an impatient sigh, Sherlock went with her.

"Do have a seat, Scarlet." Mycroft said to her. "Can I offer you something to drink? I'm sure I'll be able to find you anything you want."

"Some water would be nice, please." Scarlet said, feeling shy again.

He poured her a glass from a decanter on his desk and handed it across. He waved at her to sit on the sofa while he sat down on the matching armchair.

"I suppose you've come here to ask about Sherlock's drug habit, have you?"

She nodded. "Lestrade... Greg, told me some stuff, so we don't have to if you'd rather not. But Sherlock said I should talk to you both and he brought me here so..." She trailed off, not sure what to ask.

"Well, I can tell you that Sherlock took cocaine on a regular basis because he was bored and he was stupid." Mycroft told her.

She was surprised at this. She knew that there was tension between the two brothers, but she hadn't expected an adult to badmouth someone she was close to, to her face.

Mycroft caught the look.

"Scarlet, I'm fairly sure my brother knew what I was likely to say before he agreed to bring you to my office. So I might as well say all that he expects, don't you think?"

She wasn't sure about this so made an non-committal noise.

Mycroft laughed, surprising her further. "Scarlet, there are all sorts of games that people play when they're talking to each other. They say what they think might work to their advantage, they say what they expect the other wants to hear, they talk constantly, but they tell the truth rarely. It's all a bit of a waste of time, don't you think?"

Scarlet stared at him steadily. Finally she spoke. "I don't think I'm as bright as you seem to think I am." She said. "I have literally no clue about what you're talking about."

Mycroft smiled. "You see, now you're honest. You're like your Father in that respect."

She sighed impatiently. "Yes, yes. I'm like my Dad. Can we move on to the part where I ask you questions and you answer them? Honestly, telling me what you think rather than what you think Sherlock thinks you think. I could get that from him."

Mycroft smiled. "You know, Scarlet, I think you're not as stupid as you seem to think you are. I think you might have been overexposed to genius so you're using the wrong point of comparison. It's a shame because you really are quite bright. Try not to sell yourself short. Now, what questions do you have to ask me?"

"Why did Sherlock stop taking drugs?" She asked instantly.

"Because Lestrade told him to." Mycroft said as if it was obvious. Scarlet's face seemed to indicate that she didn't think it was as simple as that. "Look, Scarlet, however he might behave, Sherlock respects Lestrade immensely. He likes to annoy him, he likes to point out his many flaws, but it's all part of the game Sherlock plays. If he wanted to, he could utterly destroy the man in the space of ten minutes, but he doesn't want to, even when they argued that time he was holding back. DI Lestrade is among the very, very few people in this world that Sherlock respects. He was genuinely hurt by their fight, he genuinely wanted Lestrade's respect in a way that he's never wanted mine. And more than that he knew that his only source of... fun... was gone if he continued taking the drugs."

"So he didn't find the drugs fun?" She asked, confused.

"No. They were a distraction at best. They might make his life stop feeling so unpleasant temporarily, but they didn't make him enjoy life at all. I personally don't think it's possible to properly enjoy life while you're on drugs. It's all fake; it goes away when the drugs leave your system. Real joy stays with you forever; you can always re-access it. He knew the difference and he seemed to decide that proper, real fun was worth the times when he was... bored. He certainly tried anyhow."

"Did he find it easy? To stop taking drugs?" She asked.

"No." Mycroft answered. He paused for so long Scarlet wondered if he was going to continue. "No, Scarlet, he didn't find it easy. I think even he was surprised though, at how hard he found it. He thought he was in control, that he didn't use them often enough and only when he was bored. He didn't realise how easily he had started to find excuses to take them. He stopped waiting until he was bored and started injecting when he assumed he would be bored. He would argue that prevention was better than cure, but he wasn't preventing anything; he had in fact lost the ability to do anything else to relieve the boredom. He was addicted, Scarlet. He hadn't escaped that. So yes, he found it hard, both mentally and physically, to stop."

Scarlet bit her lip. She wasn't entirely sure she could read this man, but she certainly had the sense that he was sad. He was remembering the pain and it upset him.

He came back to the present and smiled at her. "Does that answer all your questions, Scarlet?"

"Yes." She said. "Only... Greg couldn't say for sure whether Sherlock had taken drugs since. I don't want to ask Sherlock, and I don't think he wants to tell me. Can you?"

Mycroft looked at her. "I can tell you that since meeting your father he's used recreational drugs on precisely two occasions. I know this because when he wishes to indulge he comes to my flat where his... equipment, is stored."

"Couldn't he get what he needs anywhere?" She asked.

"Yes, he could, but he won't. There is no deal spoken of, and I wouldn't like to speak for the future, but at the moment he prefers to come to my flat knowing that he'll be safe and he has the incentive to control himself, but knowing I'll never try to stop him."

"Wouldn't you?" She asked with a frown.

"No. I would not. I am not his keeper. Besides which, it's hard enough for him to turn up and ask in the first place. I feel if I were to refuse when he'd gone through that then he would be driven to take anything from anyone. I'd prefer that didn't happen."

"I'd stop him." She said darkly. "I'd physically restrain him if I died trying."

Mycroft smiled at her. "Yes you would." He said. "Because you're..."

"Yes, yes, yes." She said impatiently. "I'm my father's daughter; I'm just like him, blah blah blah."

Mycroft smiled genuinely at her this time. "Scarlet, you are a very interesting person." He told her. She wondered if this was as close to a compliment as this person could get. "Before you go, I'd like you to consider this. I said a while ago that Sherlock would already know what I'd say to you. He knows I'd tell you the truth, and tell you precisely what I think of him. Do you doubt this is true?" She shook her head. "Well then, I am surprised and... honoured that he brought you here anyway. I'm pleased that on some levels he thinks that highly enough of me to let me share my opinions with you."

Scarlet thought about this for a long time, then nodded. "I think that you respect him more than you like to pretend." She said.

"Ah yes." Mycroft said. "That is indeed one of the games that I play. Well done, Miss Watson."

Scarlet smiled, oddly pleased that this particular man thought she was clever on some level.

"Why do you?" she asked. "Respect him I mean. You've never taken drugs, you're as intelligent than him..."

"More so, some would say." Mycroft told her.

"So you get bored too, you must do, but you've never used drugs to fight it. Or have you?" She looked at him frowning but he shook his head. "So why do you still respect him if you think he was bored and stupid and did a stupid thing?"

He smiled again. Again, Scarlet recognised the honesty in it. "All I've had to do is not start taking drugs. It's not actually that hard. He had to stop, Scarlet, and that was excruciating. I'm not sure that if I'd have had to do that, if I'd have been in the same position, we'd have had the same result. I certainly don't feel confident enough to test myself." The mask came down again. "Also, I suppose he is reasonably clever. On some subjects." He looked at her. "Are we finished?"

She smiled at him. "Yes, thank you, Mycroft." Suddenly she stood up and hugged him. He was utterly surprised and not entirely sure how to respond. "Thank you for sharing all of that with me." She said. "I know it's not a nice thing to talk about, so thank you."

He nodded at her for a moment, then cleared his throat and showed him through to a waiting room where Sherlock was waiting, looking outwardly patient, but inwardly smug.

Mycroft frowned at him. "What have you done?" he asked suspiciously.

"I haven't done anything!" he protested.

"He's locked my phone." Anthea said darkly. "The IT department can't work out what he's done and can't fix it. He was only supposed to be sending a text!"

"It's rude to keep texting while someone's trying to have a conversation with you!" Sherlock told her.

"Just go away, Sherlock." Mycroft said to him.

oOo

The cab was silent. Unusually, it was Scarlet thinking, and Sherlock watching her, wondering if he could speak.

"So..." he said finally. "Were all your questions answered?"

"Yes." She said.

"And... are you uncomfortable with my history."

She considered. "Uncomfortable, no. Concerned... maybe."

"I don't need pity, Scarlet." He said quickly. "I'm a well educated, well moneyed, intelligent individual. I had lots of options in front of me; far more than many other people have. Far, far more than your friend's brother. I have no excuses and I hope that neither of them gave you any excuses for me."

"They didn't." She said. "I think the word 'concerned' was wrong. Sorry. What I mean is; I wish you hadn't felt like you wanted to take drugs in the first place. I wish you hadn't taken drugs, because you had to stop taking drugs and I know that was hard and horrible. So part of me is concerned for the 'you' of years ago who doesn't exist any more. I wish I could do something to help that person, _then _because he must have been miserable. On the other hand, if you hadn't had all of that happen, you wouldn't be the same 'you' that you are now. I don't pity you, but I don't think you're evil or selfish either."

"There was an element of selfishness though, Scarlet. Your father... occasionally I think he has a fraction too much compassion. There was selfishness; there is in all drug use, it's not an altruistic activity. I put my personal wants over that of everyone else and it's a mistake to assume it didn't affect anyone else. It did, it affected Lestrade and Mycroft and people who were relying on me to help them. Your friend's brother; he knew the risks, he might have underestimated them, but he knew them and he for a while he didn't care how the consequences would affect his family. Isn't that selfishness?"

"Yes. It is." She said. "But I think that sometimes, perhaps what's going on in your own life makes it really, really hard to concentrate on what other people need. I think it takes an incredible sort of person to choose what other people need over what they need all the time."

"Mmm." Sherlock agreed. "It is indeed a rare sort of person who can do that. I'm not that sort of person. I'd like to pretend; I'd like for you at least to think that I'm heroic and wonderful and selfless, but I'm not. Most of the time, with most people, I don't even want to be that sort of person. It's far easier not to care." He looked across at her with a wry smile. "Now that you know that, do you think less of me?"

She thought about this. "Mostly I'm glad I know. I'm glad that the 'you' of now is more in context. And I'm really, really pleased that you stopped. And I think, if it's possible, I respect you even more for having done _that_."

Sherlock blinked for a moment. "Thank you." He said quietly.

After a moment's thought he looked at her. "You know, Scarlet, I know I've said it before, but..."

"Oh, for heaven's sake!" she said "I know! I get it! I'm like my Dad! Can people please stop going on about it all the time!"

He just laughed at her, happily.

* * *

**That's my longest chapter to date, so sorry about that. There was a lot that needed covering though. I'm more or less happy with it, but I'm nervous as it's by far the most 'political' think that I've published.**

**Right, I need to do something funny and fluffy now.**

**As an additional note, please feel free to point out mistakes to me; I'd prefer to know and improve. A 'big' mistake I'll fix as soon as it's pointed out and I intend to go over all the chapters fixing smaller mistakes when I have the time. I'm also going to label the chapters as it's a bit hard to navigate now it's so long. If anyone has any ideas for chapter titles, do let me know because I'm exceptionally boring with that sort of thing. LP xx  
**


	31. Christmas

**There were a couple of prompts for this one;**

_**how about a situation where John wants Scarlet to experience the whole 'tooth fairy' or 'Easter bunny' or 'Santa' routine, but Sherlock obviously thinks that the idea is ridiculous?**_** – MOONBOUND**

_**What about holidays, like Christmas, and all of that stuff. How would that be handled? Would Sherlock think it's all stupid and not allow it?**_** - ElvesWizardsCentaursOhMy**

**Well, ElvesWizardsCentaursOhMy, it would be handled a little something like this...**

**

* * *

**Christmas

_Nearly Four_.

Sherlock climbed the stairs. He could hear the sound of squealing and laughing but he was finally getting used to this sound and had started accepting it as normality. He was quite surprised when he got to the landing as Scarlet darted out from the living room with two long pieces of tinsel held above her head, and they were streaming behind her as she ran. She didn't appear to see Sherlock as she darted past him and into the kitchen.

"Wheeeeeeeeeee!" she said as she went.

A moment later she came out of the living room again, then back into the kitchen, then back out of the living room, then back into the kitchen. He carefully timed stepping into the living room so that he didn't crash into her.

"How long has she been doing that?" He asked while still watching her.

"About twenty minutes." John answered calmly. "I thought if I stopped her napping today she might go to sleep a bit earlier, but it seems to have misfired and made her a bit manic." John noticed Sherlock's attention seemed to be lacking so he looked round at him.

Sherlock was now staring, wide eyed at the living room.

"What happened here?" he asked, sounding alarmed and slightly breathless.

"We decorated." John answered. "Do you like it?"

Sherlock stared some more. There was of course a Christmas tree, though he was guessing that from the shape and the smell; it was quite hard to see any tree under the amount of shiny, glittery fripperies on it. There were Christmas cards along the mantelpiece and on strings over both windows. The mirror was bordered with gold and silver tinsel. There was further red and green tinsel around the picture frames and baubles hanging from the horns of the bull-skull. There were paper chains strung across the ceiling from corner to corner and meeting at the light in the middle of the room. Sherlock... stared.

John was sat on the floor next to the Christmas tree. There was another box of baubles in front of him. Sherlock couldn't for the life of him work out where John thought he could fit extra baubles. But he seemed to be waiting an answer.

"It's very...festive?" Sherlock suggested tentatively, as if he wasn't at all sure whether that was a good thing or not.

John smirked at him. "Scrooge." He said.

"No, no I'm not!" Sherlock protested. "The tree looks very... It looks very..." He frowned at the tree. "Well, that side looks, er, nice. This side looks like a two foot tall decoration-fairy sneezed glitter onto it."

"Funny," said John, "that's not a million miles away from what happened! Good deduction."

Scarlet finally finished her circuit and came in and flopped onto John's armchair. "Sherlock!" she cried, excitedly, as if she'd only just realised he was here. "Sherlock, Father Christmas is coming! He's coming tonight! This actual night!"

"Who?" Sherlock asked blankly.

"You know, Sherlock." John said. "Father Christmas is coming to give presents to all the good boys and girls."

Sherlock sat down on the sofa, quite confused. Scarlet came and stood in front of him.

"Will he come here, Sherlock?" She asked him. "Have I been good enough?"

Sherlock stared at her. "I don't know." He said. "How high are his standards?"

"Sherlock!" John said, unamused. "Of _course_ he's coming. Scarlet's been very good."

"What time's he coming? He'll have to get here soon or Scarlet will be in bed."

John stared. "You are kidding aren't you? He'll come when we're all asleep."

Scarlet climbed onto Sherlock's lap.

"Well how will he get in?" Sherlock asked with a frown.

"He comes down the chimney!" Scarlet told him.

"Well that's patently ridiculous!" Sherlock said.

"Sherlock!" John snapped.

Sherlock got the impression he was missing something here but he couldn't quite put his finger on what.

"Father Christmas is magical!" Scarlet filled in for him, with wide eyes.

"Ooohhhh." Sherlock said, suddenly everything falling into place. "This is one of _those_ things that people tell children. Like God."

"Sherlock!" John snapped again, looking more angry this time.

Sherlock looked at Scarlet who was looking at him. The shining excitement and naivety of youth that had radiating from her when he got home seemed to be slightly diminished, and had been replaced by something not a million miles away from doubt.

"Oh, silly me," he said, shaking his head and giving her a big hug. "I'd completely forgotten that he'd come tonight. I thought Christmas was next week!" She giggled at him. "Of course you've been good enough, Scarlet. I imagine he'll be coming with his magic flying reindeer!"

John looked at him. "Good guess?"

"Oxford street lights. I just made the connection." Sherlock told him. "What the hell?" he suddenly asked, looking at John.

John had looped two of the baubles over his ears and was wearing them like earrings. "What?" he asked, looking innocent.

"This evening has been very strange." Sherlock said.

"Right, Scarlet, you can put out the mince pies now and then bath and bed." John told her.

She ran through to the kitchen and came back in with a plate and a box of mince pies. They decided two would be enough and she carefully placed them on the plate, and put the plate on the hearth.

"Should we get him something to drink?" She asked, sounding concerned.

"What do you think Father Christmas likes to drink?" John asked her.

"Milk." She said.

"I think he'd prefer beer." John told her.

"Maybe that's why he's so out of shape." Sherlock suggested. John gave him a look.

Finally Scarlet was satisfied that everything was as ready as it could be, and she was persuaded to go up for a bath.

"I'll do it." Sherlock said. "I'm not sure I'm best suited for... well; this." He indicated the festivities with a wave of his arm.

"Fine," John said. "But please don't shatter any youthful dreams."

"I'll try." Sherlock said. He meant it.

oOo

He came back downstairs half an hour later.

"She fell asleep before we'd even finished her book." He said. "Hey! You're drinking Father Christmas's beer!"

"Yep." Said John. "I'm eating his mince pies too." He handed a second bottle over to Sherlock.

"What's this for?" Sherlock asked him.

"It's for drinking." John told him. "It's Christmas Eve, Sherlock. Have one beer with me. Please."

Sherlock sat down next to him and took a mouthful, looking round the room.

"It does look very Christmassy." Sherlock told him. "Very, very Christmassy."

John snorted. "We always had loads of decorations when I was a kid." John told him. "Oddly it's what I remember most about Christmas. The actual day and most of the presents I don't really remember at all. Some stuff sticks out, obviously, but mostly I remember me and Harry sitting at the dining table making paper chains, and putting stuff on the tree. Dad always got the tree on Christmas Eve having had us nag him for weeks and weeks to go and get it. We always wondered whether he'd bother at all; every year he told us we were too old, but he always turned up with a beauty on Christmas Eve." He sighed, thinking back. "What do you mostly remember about Christmas?" he asked Sherlock.

"The rows." Sherlock said.

John looked at him. "Well, this year will be different." He said quietly.

"I'll say." Sherlock agreed, looking again at the decorations like he thought they might all explode and smother him in clouds of glitter and sequins. He drank his beer.

"Right." John said. "I'd better go and get her presents."

"Isn't Father Christmas bringing them?" Sherlock asked, mischievously.

"Shut up." John told him mildly.

oOo

As he'd predicted, John was woken early.

"Is it Christmas? Is it Christmas?" an excited voice said at his ear. He rolled over heavily and looked at the clock.

"Sod off, Sherlock." He said, blearily. "It's half past bloody five!"

"I'm too excited!" Sherlock insisted.

"Sod off." John told him again. "I'll get up when Scarlet wakes up."

"Oh, OK then." Sherlock said, darting out the room.

"No!" John called in a fierce whisper. "That's not what I meant!"

John later thought that Sherlock had been quite restrained in _not_ waking her up. He instead waited patiently for a further forty-five minutes until she woke up on her own. Well, if you were to interpret 'patiently' as someone pacing up and down the hallway and continually poking his head into her room. John had eventually managed to persuade him to come and wait quietly in his bedroom as apparently the detective didn't want to go downstairs on his own. John spent the time re-evaluating the wisdom of letting Sherlock have a beer.

Finally Scarlet staggered, bleary eyed into John's room. "Is it Christmas?" She asked.

"It is." John said. "Shall we go and see if Father Christmas came?"

She nodded with a slight smile. She looked mildly terrified about the idea that he might not have been. John recognised the look. The feeling that maybe, just maybe you hadn't made the grade. Just maybe, Father Christmas had known it was you who buried you're sister's favourite book in the compost heap. Just maybe, he doubted your apology had been sincere. Until you went downstairs, you wouldn't know for sure. While you stayed up in your room, there was still the possibility that you'd been good enough... but you wouldn't know for certain-sure until you went downstairs.

He smiled at her and pushed her hair from her eyes. He then launched himself out of bed and picked her up to carry her downstairs. Sherlock followed them.

"He's been! He's been! He's been!" Scarlet squealed excitedly.

John stopped dead in the doorway. He relaxed his arms and Scarlet slid down and bounded over to the pile of presents.

"Sherlock, I think someone's broken in." John said, sounding like he was trying hard to cover his stress. The living room floor was filthy. One of the paper chains had been pulled down from the ceiling. "Do you want to quickly check what's missing?" John said quietly to Sherlock before going to take a quick stock take himself. He was relieved that both laptops seemed to be where they'd left them. All the presents seemed to be there too, come to that. Sherlock's voice broke through his feeling of worry and anger.

"Look at the mess Father Christmas made, Scarlet." Sherlock was saying. "Yep; these are definitely the prints of a size eleven boot in the fireplace and I know for sure that's Father Christmas's size." Scarlet was looking at him with eyes the size of moons. "And look here! I think Blizen got a bit too excited and flew up to the ceiling!" Scarlet giggled. "Yep!" he said, getting down a half eaten carrot from where it was wedged at the top of the mirror. "These are definitely the teeth-marks of a member of the deer family. From the size, I'd guess reindeer."

John slumped down on the sofa, covered his face with his hands and laughed in a near hysterical fashion.

"Daddy! He was here! He ware really, _really_ here!" Scarlet told him excitedly.

"Yes." John agreed. "It would appear that he really, really was."

* * *

**Yes, yes, yes, I've made Sherlock into a great big soppy fool. But he did go through a lot in the last chapter so needed a bit of fun. Also, I promised fluff; I like to think I delivered fluff. I really quite like this one. I love Christmas. **

**I have no idea what's coming up next. Probably the engagement one unless I suddenly hit a low mood. We'll have to wait and see.**

**250th review gets a prize. Actually that is a complete lie; every review gets my utmost gratitude and respect and I haven't got a whole heap else to give away.**

**LPxxx**


	32. Panic

**This one wasn't prompted, but something in the reviews made me think along these lines...**

**he and John's quite camaraderie after Scarlet has gone to bed – Cacodeamonia**

**I love the idea of quiet camaraderie. I'm very tempted to have this in the second of a 5x fics – 5x Sherlock has a beer with John. But I can only think of one other scenario right now so maybe not. It's ended up a bit of a strange mash up of two completely different thoughts and I'm not convinced, but see what you think.**

**

* * *

**_Nine months._

John came in from the kitchen carrying two mugs of tea. Scarlet was playing with her coloured cloth blocks and Sherlock was sat at the table at John's computer.

"Are you checking your email?" John asked him.

"No, I'm checking yours." Sherlock answered.

"Sherlock!" John said, annoyed. "Do you know nothing of personal privacy?"

Sherlock turned round to face him. "I've certainly heard of the concept." He said pleasantly. "Is one of those mine?"

"I'm tempted to pour it over your head." John said.

"You won't though. Hippocratic Oath and all that. Why aren't you going to Bart's Christmas party?"

John gave him a tea. "Because I don't want to." He said with a shrug.

"No." Sherlock answered.

"What do you mean 'no'?" John said snappishly. "I know my own mind, thank you. And leave my email alone." He snapped the laptop shut.

"Clearly you don't know your own mind." Sherlock replied. "This email was sent ten days ago; you've read, replied and deleted other mails since then but you haven't deleted this one, so you _do_ want to go but don't think you can."

"Of course I can't go, Sherlock. Do you expect Scarlet to put herself to bed?" John said.

"Don't be ridiculous, John, have you never heard of babysitters?"

"I'm not leaving her with a complete stranger. She'd hate it." John snapped.

"You mean you'd hate it." Sherlock said. "And you don't have to leave her with a complete stranger; you could leave her with me."

"You?" John said, with a slightly cruel snigger.

"Yes, me." Sherlock answered, trying to keep hold of his patience. "She likes me, she knows me, I'd be quite capable of taking care of her for one evening."

"Don't be ridiculous." John said.

"What? Why not?" Sherlock said.

"Well for one thing you've never changed a nappy. You'd hate it."

"I have changed a nappy." Sherlock reminded him. "I did several when she was younger."

"Yes, but she's on solids now; it's a whole different ball-game. You're too squeamish."

"I'm not squeamish!" Sherlock protested. "You know that, you've seen me handle a six-day old corpse that had been left in a frog-pond."

"Yes, I agree, _on a case_ you have a higher than usual tolerance for gore. When you're not on a case I've seen you gag over some slightly off milk. You're as fastidious as a cat, Sherlock. You'd hate it."

Sherlock pouted. After a few moments he looked over at John. "So, are you saying if that if I can change one soiled nappy, you'll tell Mike that you'll go to the Christmas party?"

"OK then, but I know you'll never do it."

"Yes I will." Sherlock looked at Scarlet. "Turnip; defecate!" he commanded her.

John snorted. "She can't poo on command, Sherlock! You'll just have to wait, if you've got the patience."

"I have." He said.

"Fine." John said.

oOo

Forty minutes later Sherlock had the opportunity to show off his skills.

"Are you sure you need to see a demonstration?" He said to John, holding Scarlet at arm's length.

"No, I'm perfectly happy to stay here with Scarlet and not go out; you're the one pushing on this." John reminded him.

"No." Said Sherlock. "You need to go out. I'll do this." He put a stoic expression on his face and marched from the room.

A few seconds later John leapt up and quietly went into the hallway. He could hear Sherlock talking to Scarlet.

"Now let's see about this, Turnip. You're Daddy's a strange one, isn't he? To think a bit of excrement would... Oh good, God, Turnip! Really? Wow."

John stifled a laugh and as he did so, realised it was the first genuine laugh he'd felt for a while.

"OK," Sherlock went on, clearing his throat, "we can do this, Turnip. No, wait! Where are you going? Come back!" There was the sound of hurried shuffling. "Oh no, Turnip you're getting it everywhere! Damn it!"

"Everything OK in there?" John couldn't help but interject.

Sherlock clearly hadn't expected him to be just outside. "Yes, everything's fine!" he called back. "Absolutely... fine."

Unfortunately, knowing he had such an interested audience caused him to be slightly quieter. John found himself listening to some sounds he couldn't quite identify, interspersed with some very muffled swearing.

"Please, just stay still!" Sherlock said, sounding quite exasperated.

"Are you sure you don't need help?" John asked.

"Yes I'm sure!" Sherlock said. "Actually, John, do you have any duct tape?"

"Duct tape?" He said frowning. "Yes, why do you need it?"

There was a pause. "I'd rather not say." Sherlock said.

"Sherlock; you can't duct tape her to the changing mat." John told him. "Are you sure you don't want help?"

"I don't need help!" Sherlock snapped. "Anyhow, I think the worst is over now. Turnip? What are you doing? No! Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!"

John couldn't resist more and tried to open the door. It was locked. "Sherlock, let me in!" he called, alarmed.

"No, John we're fine!" Sherlock called back.

"No you're not! Let me in!" John said, sounding stressed.

"Look, just go into the living room, we'll be there in a second. Turnip is perfectly fine; thriving in fact. Turnip, tell your Dad you're fine."

There was a pause.

"She's fine!" Sherlock said, when it had become apparent that Scarlet wasn't going to speak for herself. "Go and sit down, we'll be there in a minute."

John stared at the door. He was cross, but realised there was little he could do about it, went back to the living room.

A few moments later Sherlock did indeed emerge from the bathroom and handed a happy, smiling and clean baby to a slightly startled John.

"See!" He said. "No problem." He sat down next to John.

"OK then." John said. "Clearly I was quite wrong."

"Clearly." Sherlock answered. "So you'll go out, then, and I'll babysit?"

"Look, I'm not sure..." John said.

"We had a deal." Sherlock reminded him. "And you need to go out on your own for a bit; it will do you good."

John sighed. "OK. Fine. I'll tell them yes."

"Good." Sherlock said.

John jiggled Scarlet on his knee for a bit, making her giggle. "Sherlock," he said calmly. "I can't help noticing you're not wearing any clothes."

"Yes" Sherlock answered. "I was wondering if I could possibly borrow something clean to wear home."

"Right." John said.

oOo

Two weeks later Sherlock was back at John's flat. He was throwing Scarlet into the air and catching her carelessly and she was laughing and laughing.

"Are you ever going to leave?" He called through to John.

"Yes, yes!" John snapped. "Just give me a second."

"Do you want me to book a cab?" Sherlock asked.

"No, I'll just pick one up." John said coming into the living room. "Do I look OK?"

"What?" Sherlock asked him, confused.

"I don't know, silly question really." John said. "Look, are you sure you're OK? Maybe I should stay; she was looking a bit iffy earlier."

Sherlock frowned and looked at Scarlet who was gurgling and looking like the picture of health in his arms.

John took a deep breath. "OK, well, I'll be off then." He didn't move. "I won't be back late." He still didn't move. Sherlock stared at him without saying anything. "Right, good-night Turnip. I mean Scarlet." He gave her a quick kiss and went into the hall to put his coat on. He came back into the lounge. "Do you need the number for the place in case my mobile doesn't work?"

Sherlock frowned. "What? No! Just go, John! Go, drink, talk to adult people, have fun!" He shoved him towards the door and forced him through it.

As soon as the door was closed behind him the terror descended. John leaned against the wall taking deep breaths. He internally repeated to himself 'I can do this. I can do this.' When that didn't work he said it out loud.

He took a long deep breath through his nose and breathed out through his mouth. He shut his eyes. He briefly entertained the idea of waiting in the hallway for an hour or two and then telling Sherlock that he had had a lovely time. He opened his eyes again and walked steadily towards the lift, then rounded back and went back to lean on the wall some more. He could hear his heart pounding in his ears and he tried further deep breaths to stop the black spots that were dotting over his vision. There was no hope; his chest felt tight and constricted as if it didn't want the air.

He could feel tears stabbing at his eyes. He made his hands into fists and tried for the lift again, but instead went over to the window and rested his forehead against the cool glass. Finally he went back and sat down, leaning against the wall next to his own front door. He tried again to calm down. The second he contemplated leaving, the panic would surge again.

He wasn't sure how long he'd been there when his flat door opened and Sherlock silently hooked him under the arm and pulled him back into the flat. In the hallway Sherlock stripped him of his coat and John leaned against the wall.

"John, what the hell's going on?" Sherlock asked him, quietly, leaning against the opposite wall.

John swallowed and shook his head. "Nothing." He said, failing to keep his voice steady. "I'm fine." He looked away. He was pale and sweating.

"Come and sit down." Sherlock said. "I'll get you a drink."

John was grateful that he didn't help him to the sofa. He got there under his own steam. He was also surprised when Sherlock pushed an opened bottle of beer into his hands. He'd expected tea.

"I didn't think you needed caffeine." Sherlock explained, sitting down with a bottle of his own.

"No, this is good. Thanks." John told him.

"Look," Said Sherlock, "I've had a better idea than you going out this evening. Let's order food, drink some beer and watch a film."

John almost choked on his drink. "What, really?" he asked. "You don't want to grill me on my complete inability to leave the flat without my child? That doesn't seem a bit unusual to you?"

"Well we could do that if you like." Sherlock replied. "But to be honest I don't think I'm qualified to give you any decent input."

"You think I should see a shrink?" John interpreted.

"I don't know." Sherlock answered. "I think you should see someone who's not under one or a sociopath though."

John looked away.

"John," Sherlock went on. "I don't know what's normal. I don't know what's within the bounds of normal grief and what's not. This doesn't seem right to me; this seems... extreme, but I don't know. I think you need to talk to someone, _anyone_ who knows. Because I thought that maybe if you just went to a big Christmas party you'd be fine again. And in retrospect it was a ridiculous idea."

"No it wasn't." John said.

"Yes it was. You went with Mary last year, didn't you?" Sherlock asked him.

John didn't answer, but took a deep, shuddering breath.

"Should I stay?" Sherlock asked him.

John didn't answer for a moment, then he nodded. "Yes. Food, beer and a film sounds perfect. Thank you."

"Good." Sherlock said.

"Good." Repeated John.

* * *

**Not sure I got the tone right on this one. My mood's been a bit iffy for the past couple of days and I think it's made the darker bits a bit too dark to be properly balanced by the humour. You get that I'm feeling a bit insecure yes? Just a touch. No idea why. It'll pass and I'll be back to 'funny' in a few days I'm sure.**

**LP**


	33. Engaged

**This one is closest to this prompt from Volitan...**

_**Waaay into the future, what will happen should 'Turnip' get married? I can see any potential hubby being doubly interrogated by both John and Sherlock!**_

**I know for sure that other things people have mentioned to me have got mixed up in here though.**

**Oh, and like I predicted I shook the low mood off. Partly it was getting a massive report finished and so not having to work from home this evening (yey! Got to write FanFic instead!) but mostly it was the reviews. God I love reviews.**

**

* * *

**_Twenty-Six_

John answered the door. He was quite surprised to see Aidan there alone. John had a quick scan up and down the street, obviously looking for Scarlet. He noted that Aidan looked slightly on edge.

"Aidan? Are you OK? Where's Scarlet? What's going on?"

"No, there's nothing wrong, John," Aidan said, smiling slightly. "I just wondered if I could talk to you for a bit."

John felt oddly touched that this boy was coming to him for advice. Though slightly worried as to what that advice might be. He thought as he followed him up the stairs how much he liked Aidan. He seemed to have been part of Scarlet's life for so long now and, though John quietly worried that Scarlet hadn't seen enough of the world to settle down, they really worked well together. They'd tried giving the relationship a rest because they thought they ought to, but neither of them had wanted to be with anyone else.

The only thing that annoyed him is that he looked slightly like Sherlock. Not completely like him; it wasn't 'creepy'. Aidan was not so tall, not so angular and not so thin, but dark curly hair and high chiselled cheek-bones. John had read once that girls were frequently attracted to men who resembled their father's in some way, either mentally or physically. He couldn't help but feel mildly irritated that Aidan didn't look more like... well, more like _him_.

Even Sherlock seemed to be getting used to him. At least enough to grunt in his general direction as he entered the room.

"Do you want a drink, Aidan?" John offered him, sitting down on the sofa.

"No, I'm fine thanks." He replied, standing in the middle of the room, clearly feeling self conscious.

"I'd like a drink." Sherlock said.

"You can get it yourself." John told him. With a dramatic sigh Sherlock stood up and wandered into the kitchen. "Aidan, sit down, you look all... spare. What's worrying you?"

Aidan sat perched on the edge of John's armchair, as if he might need to bolt out the door at any second. He turned slightly so he was facing John on the sofa.

"Scarlet and I have been thinking," he started. "Well, we've been thinking and talking about marriage a fair bit recently."

There was the sound of a crash from the kitchen. Sherlock appeared to have dropped a cup. He appeared behind Aidan's chair and looked at him venomously.

"OK." Said John to Aidan, not noting Sherlock's actions at all.

"Well, Scarlet..." Aidan broke off and smiled for a moment, thinking of her. "Scarlet seems to have picked up one or two old fashioned views from somewhere, and she's indicated that she'd prefer for me to discuss it with you first, before she and I make any firm plans." He smiled earnestly at John and bit his lip.

"No." Sherlock said, making both of them jump.

"What?" Said John.

"No." Sherlock said again. "No, John, he's not nearly good enough for her. He's not even close."

He was stood leaning on the back of the armchair, gripping so tightly his knuckles showed white.

"Sherlock, calm down!" John told him. "Be sensible will you! And sit down; you're terrifying the poor boy!"

Sherlock crossed the room and sat next to John on the sofa but he continued to scowl in Aidan's direction.

"Look, I know." Aidan said. "I know how much she means to you two, but she means a lot to me too. Honestly; I can't imagine being with anyone else ever. If you say no, then we won't go ahead, but I'll never leave her side anyway."

"No." Sherlock said, as if that was final.

"Sherlock, stop it. Of course they should get married if that's what they want to do!" John told him.

"What, so now you're pushing them on?" Sherlock demanded.

"What!" John cried. "Sherlock, you're annoying me now; this doesn't actually have anything to do with you!"

"Really?" Sherlock said. "So my opinion doesn't count at all?"

"No!" John snapped. "It doesn't. And they will get married. I insist on it."

Aidan watched the two of them; his eyes flicking from one to another, thoroughly confused.

"You're going to _insist_ they get married!" Sherlock snarled at John. "Really? Like some kind of Victorian Lord and Master?"

"Yes!" John said. "Aidan; I insist you marry my daughter. After all; you deflowered her."

"No I didn't." Aidan found himself saying.

"What? You're not..." John looked confused.

"No, of course we are!" Aidan said. "I didn't deflower her though; she wasn't particularly... flowered when I met her." Aidan blushed red.

John stared blankly at him for a moment before falling back on the sofa and covering his face. "What the hell is going on here?" he asked.

"Scarlet sent me because she'd like your permission for me to marry her." Aidan said, almost calmly.

John looked at him with narrowed eyes. "No she didn't." He said. "I may not be a deductive genius but I know my own daughter. She hasn't wanted or required my permission to do anything since she was about six. So either she's messing with your head, Aidan, or you're both messing with mine."

Aidan grinned and looked towards the door. Scarlet leapt in with a grin.

"Surprise!" She said.

"Ha!" Said John, getting up and giving her a hug. "There's no way you'd want permission. I should have realised immediately."

"Yeah." She said. "And we don't need permission because we're already married!" She held up her hand and on her ring finger there was a small, shining silver ring.

John's face fell and he staggered backwards, sitting down on the sofa so sharply he almost landed on Sherlock who just scooted out of the way.

"What?" he said weakly.

Scarlet looked at him. "It's OK, Dad." She said, looking slightly concerned. "This is just tin-foil." She took the 'ring' off and showed him. "I made it from a kit-kat wrapper just now."

"Oh, God! Scarlet!" John laughed, holding his heart while getting his breath back. "Don't do that to me! Listen; I don't care what sort of ceremony you have, how big, small, whatever; I'm not even that bothered about who the groom will be, but I really, _really_ want to be at your wedding."

She grinned at him. "Sorry." She said, perching on the arm of Aidan's chair. "After you saw through the whole 'asking for my hand' thing, I couldn't resist." She glanced over at Sherlock who still wasn't smiling. He was staring at her intently. "Sherlock?" She said. "Are you OK?"

"No." He said. It was little more than a whisper.

She frowned. "What's wrong?" she asked, concerned.

"Scarlet," he said to her, "you can't marry him. I don't care what John says, you _can't._"

She stared at him, the smile gone from her face. "What are you talking about?" She glanced at Aidan who was looking shocked.

"Scarlet; I didn't want to tell you this... I was hoping this thing would all blow over, that you'd move on. He's not faithful to you, Scarlet. As far as I'm aware he never has been."

She looked at him open mouthed. "What?" she breathed. She looked over at Aidan who was clearly stunned.

"Scarlet, no." Aidan said to her, frantic. "I don't know what he's talking about! I promise you! No!"

Sherlock got up and pulled her away from Aidan. She could see the tears in his eyes. Aidan got up too, but didn't seem able to come close to them.

"Scarlet!" Sherlock said urgently, putting her hands on her shoulders, "please, you have to listen to me, please!"

Scarlet looked again towards Aidan, then back at Sherlock. She bit her lip and swallowed.

"Scarlet..." Sherlock whispered to her, then leaning in, said loudly; "Got you back!" He grinned and tweaked her under her chin.

She stood there swaying slightly while Sherlock and John laughed and high-fived.

"You utter bastards!" She said.

"You started it!" John pointed out.

"You knew?" She demanded.

"Come on, Scarlet." John said. "You're not subtle; we knew you were thinking of marrying for a while; you can't walk past a wedding dress shop without stopping and staring for several hours! And as for that little performance..." he nodded towards Sherlock, "that was unplanned but I knew he was messing when he cried. He only ever cries when he's lying. You should know that by now."

She glanced at Sherlock. "Yeah, well I know better." She said softly.

Sherlock didn't acknowledge this, but walked up to the still shocked Aidan, he clapped him on his shoulders. "Welcome to the family!" he said. Releasing him he wandered to the kitchen. "Does anyone else need food? I need food. And champagne! We haven't got any champagne. We've got beer! That's fizzy!"

Scarlet sat down next to John, bemused. "Actually toasting in beer seems strangely appropriate for this family. You all right, Aid?"

Aidan slowly nodded and sat down again. "I'm losing track," he said, "are we engaged or not?"

oOo

They ate and drank beer; they laughed and all talked at once, and occasionally drifted off into silence. Obviously they started planning the wedding.

"I'll have to give her away." Sherlock said.

"What? Why?" John asked.

"I'm taller!" He shrugged, as if it was obvious. Scarlet laughed.

"So!" John protested. "I'm her father! Of course I'll be giving her away!"

"I'm not a possession." Scarlet pointed out. "There will be no giving away."

John looked at her. "Fine; then I would like, with your permission, to escort you to from the rear of the church down the aisle to the front of the church. Because I'm your father, and it is part of my role."

She smiled at him. "Fine." She said.

"No, I'm her father too!" Sherlock said.

"No," John said, "you have been given the title of stepfather as an honorary only. Besides, Father outranks stepfather."

"In was sort of twisted ranking system is that?" Sherlock asked, incredulous. Aidan and Scarlet were in fits of giggles, watching the bickering, but they carried on, oblivious.

"In any ranking system, ever." John told him.

"Fine." Sherlock said, though the look on his face suggested it was other than 'fine'. "As the _stepfather_ what is my role?"

"You could do what my cousin did." Aidan suggested. "Her Dad gave her away and her Mum gave the speech."

"Oh that would work!" John said.

"Yes!" Scarlet agreed. "Dad escorts me down the aisle and Sherlock... no, wait, no that's a _horrible_ idea!"

"No it's perfect!" Sherlock said, excitedly jumping up and running for his computer. "I'm going to start now!"

"No!" Cried Scarlet. "Sherlock; there will be no PowerPoint! Just no!"

"Sherlock, come back!" John shouted, laughing.

He came back in and sat down. "OK, but I am starting it soon." He said.

"There will be no PowerPoint." Scarlet said again.

"Don't worry; I'll steer him, Scarlet." John told her with a smile.

"No you won't." Sherlock said. "I have it all planned already. It's all up here." He said, tapping his forehead.

Scarlet giggled.

"Big wedding or small wedding?" John asked her.

"Smallish, I think." She said. "Aidan has a huge family, but I can only think of the two of you..."

"Obviously." Sherlock said, now standing up and looking about the flat for something.

"... Mrs H, Greg and Helen, Maybe Molly and her brood, Mycroft and whoever he wants to bring..."

"No!" Sherlock said.

"_Mycroft,_" she said again, "And Aunty Harry if I have to."

"You have to." John told her. "She's invited you to all her weddings. Well the ones she's had since you were born anyway."

"Fine. But that's it. St. Matthews will certainly be big enough if some of Aid's family sit with you lot." Scarlet said.

"St. Matthews?" Sherlock asked with a frown. "Why are you getting married in a church?"

"Because I want to." Scarlet answered. "Because, though it may have escaped your notice for the past twenty-six years, I do believe in God."

Sherlock stopped his hunt and looked at her. "No you don't." He said with a frown.

"No," She said. "You don't; I do. It's no big deal, but it leads me to want to get married in a church."

He continued staring at her. "Is this one of those things like "I'm married!" where you're trying to mess with our heads?"

"No!" she laughed. "Let's move along shall we?" She walked her fingers along the armchair as a visual aid.

Sherlock looked at John in an accusatory fashion. "Well she didn't get that from me!" he said.

John just laughed. "What are you looking for?" He asked.

"Pad and paper. I need to start planning out my slides."

"I thought it was all in here?" Aidan laughed, pointing to his forehead.

"There will be NO POWERPOINT!" Scarlet said, almost unable to stop laughing.

oOo

After Aidan and Scarlet had left, very merrily, in a cab home, John came and sat next to Sherlock. He handed him another beer.

"I think I've had enough." Sherlock said.

"Yes, you have." John agreed. "But they're the last two. They seemed lonely."

Sherlock snorted but took the bottle from him anyway.

"They'll be all right, won't they, Sherlock. " John asked him, looking serious.

"I should think so." Sherlock said. "I think you've given her a good start. She can cope with most things."

"You helped." John pointed out.

"Really? I thought I mostly hindered." Sherlock said, honestly.

"On balance; I think you just about came out on the side of helping." John assured him.

Sherlock thought about this. Then he started giggling. "Did you see the look on his face!" he said. "I thought the poor boy was going to start crying!"

John giggled helplessly. "It was almost too cruel."

"I know! I found myself wanting to hug him he looked so hurt! Where did that come from?"

They giggled again.

"There was one split second there when I thought she actually had already married." John admitted.

"I know. I wondered if you were actually going to faint." Sherlock told him. "It really was quite thoughtless of her; you're an old, old man now."

John giggled. After a while, he said softly; "She's going to be OK though."

"Yes." Sherlock told him. "She's going to be OK."

* * *

**I don't know what's up next yet. The problem is that I have several almost complete but entirely in my head and I wander around with no time to type them. This is usually fine, but when I hit a 'low' it sucks all the vibrancy out of them and when I'm typing them then it feels like a dirge. There's no point doing this if I'm looking at a chapter thinking 'no, it's really too dull'.**

**In the near future there will be; The Puppy (prompted several times), Advise to Molly (this one will take a while; it's still kicking round my head, not quite formed) and we'll see why Scarlet knows Sherlock cries but John doesn't (a wee bit of angst in that one). Also Games Night; but at the moment this one's very short and unfocused. **


	34. Puppy

**Puppy**

**Often requested (well, I can only find two scrolling through now, but I'm sure I've seen more); the first ever prompt I received was from Cacodeamonia – "Turnip wants a pet" and at the other end of the scale; a brand new prompter; Nonimouse; "Young Scarlet wanting a puppy."**

**Well; what nine year old girl living with John and Sherlock **_**wouldn't**_** want a puppy?**

**

* * *

**_Nine_

"Surprise!" Sherlock said, walking into the front room.

John was reading a newspaper on the sofa and he didn't look up. "What's a surprise?" He asked. "Actually, I'm not sure I want to know."

Sherlock suddenly made a high pitched yelping noise. John finally looked up at him. Apparently the noise hadn't actually come from Sherlock; but from the small animal he was holding in his hands.

"What the hell's that?" John asked him.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "It's a dog, John. Surely even with your high level of stupidity you can recognise a dog."

"Of course I can." John said. "But that's not a dog. It's a rat on a string."

"It's a miniature Schnauzer!" Sherlock said, offended. He then looked at him slightly worried. "Do you think I should get something bigger?"

"For what?" John asked him, going back to his paper.

"For Scarlet."

John looked up again. "No!" He said.

"This is big enough then?" Sherlock clarified.

"No! No I mean, _no_ Sherlock; she can't have a dog! Not a small one, not a big one; no dog at all."

Sherlock looked confused. "But she wants one." He pointed out.

"Yes, she wants a lot of things; she wants to stay up until midnight each night, to not do her homework, to never eat another vegetable. It doesn't alter the fact that she can't do these things. And she most definitely can't have a dog!" John spoke with an air of finality.

"Why not?" Sherlock asked.

"Because she'd lose interest in a week's time and then muggings here is stuck taking care of the dog, feeding the dog, walking the dog, clearing up after the dog. So no. No dog."

"She'll look after it!" Sherlock protested. "She told me she would."

"Jesus, Sherlock!" John said, exasperated. "Do you think that at some point you could stop believing everything that girl tells you? You were quite willing to assert that high court judge was lying the other week; yet apparently everything Scarlet says is gospel, even when there's a massive amount of evidence to the contrary."

"I don't see..."

"No, you _see!_ You don't _observe!_" John told him. "You completely fail to notice that she's got you wrapped around her little finger! It's not good for her. I'm not sure it's good for you either."

Sherlock sat down on his armchair and put the dog on the floor. It promptly wet itself.

"Good!" said John. "It's not housetrained. Should we wait for Scarlet to come home and clear that up do you think?"

"That's not fair, John!" Sherlock said. "She's required to go to school so obviously we'll have to take care of him while she's there."

"No, there's no 'we' here." John told him.

"There is wee here." Sherlock told him.

John stared, then worked it out. "No; I mean there's no 'us' here; it's your dog. If I were you I'd strongly consider returning it."

"Him."

"Whatever."

"Why can't I give it to Scarlet?" Sherlock persisted. "Couldn't it be for her birthday? It will make her happy; she's been so miserable this week."

John looked at him. "Her birthday's in February, Sherlock and it's June, and yes, she has been down this week, because she's _grounded_. She has restricted access to television, internet and art equipment. She's not supposed to be happy this week."

"I think you're too hard on her." Sherlock stated.

John snorted. "Yeah, sure."

"Was this about the paint thing?"Sherlock asked. "Because a week without any fun stuff seems excessive."

"It wasn't _just_ the paint thing. She didn't _just_ deliberately paint up and down the hallway with blue poster paint..."

"She was being artistic." Sherlock stropped.

"... She wasn't _just_ rude to Mrs H when she suggested she shouldn't do such a thing..."

"She had a point; the wallpaper is ugly." Sherlock stropped some more.

"... She didn't _just_ refuse to apologise." John finished. "She was being rude and ungrateful, Sherlock, and a big reason for that is that someone seems to think it's appropriate to spoil her rotten. She's growing to be entirely self-centred!"

Sherlock pouted.

"And I wonder where she gets that from." John muttered. "Are you going to clear up after that... dog, then?" He challenged Sherlock.

Acting like a spoiled child himself, Sherlock got up and stomped into the kitchen, returning with kitchen-towel which he used to clear up the mess. He suddenly frowned.

"Where's it gone?" He asked.

It took the two of them nearly an hour to locate the animal, which had wedged itself under the sofa.

"I'd really, strongly advise you to take it back, Sherlock." John told him, when they'd managed to coax it back out again.

"Oh, she'll look after it just fine." Sherlock said. "She'll do a much better job than me!"

"So I will continue to be the only responsible person in the house then, will I?" John said crossly.

"Oh, _please_, John." Sherlock said. "Let me do this one thing for her." John snorted. "No, I mean it; she adores you and you get to do all the Dad stuff. I'd like to do this for her. Please."

John sighed. "OK, if you desperately, desperately want to give her a dog, I'm not going to stop you. But I want you to think about this; you know her. Do you honestly think she's capable of looking after another living thing? Because while I think she'd have the best intentions in the world, I don't think she can keep a single thought in her head for more than five seconds at a time, and I think she'd forget it, and that's not fair to the dog. I agree she's a lovely, lovely girl who can occasionally misbehave, but I don't think she can be trusted with a dog. But I bow down to your superior observation skills; maybe you've seen something in her that haven't."

He went back to his paper.

Sherlock looked at the puppy, its lead now securely wrapped around his wrist.

"Fine; I'll take it back." He said, "But not because I think you're right! It's because I think she needs a different breed. I'll spend some time researching that."

"How much time?" John challenged him with a smile.

"I don't know; maybe a few years?" Sherlock said.

"Good." John said.

"But you're still wrong."

"Fine." John said, smiling. "And you're more than welcome to do the Dad stuff the next time she needs grounding, by the way."

* * *

**I have mostly been housekeeping for the past couple of days and have started to go through the earlier chapters and get rid of some of the more irritating typos, so there has been a lack of updates. I hope to get some more up this weekend, but I'm exhausted, so I'm not promising anything.**

**Thanks, so, so much for the reviews! I'm seriously impressed with all of you lot! I was tempted to do a full role call at some point, but it would end up as my longest chapter. But thank you! LP.**


	35. Sympathy

**Sympathy.**

**No prompt on this one.**

**It's well and truly angst. I've just ever so slightly made myself cry writing it, but there's nothing graphic or detailed on the page; I'm just a weirdo. If you prefer not to read angst, the next chapter 'Father's Day' prompted by Katkin about 15 minutes ago should be both funny, and with luck, up later tonight.**

**

* * *

**_Eighteen months._

John woke up and noted the darkness around him. He listened, wondering if Scarlet had made a sound, and if so, whether she was going to make another or go back to sleep. She was silent and he breathed relief and rolled over again.

The front door closed. John registered that Sherlock was coming in for whatever reason; this wasn't unusual, and John knew that if he hadn't wanted his friend turning up unannounced at all hours of the day or night, then he shouldn't have given him his own key. On the few occasions he'd turned up at night he'd simply waited in the front room until the morning. On two occasions, John had found him asleep on the sofa in pyjamas he must have stashed somewhere and under a blanket.

He was vaguely aware of Sherlock going into Scarlet's bedroom for a moment. He thought this was odd, but Sherlock was often odd, so he settled back down to go to sleep.

His bedroom door creaked open. Now this was unexpected. John stayed perfectly still, hoping that Sherlock would get the hint.

"John?" Sherlock whispered. "Are you awake?"

John remained still.

"I know you're awake." Sherlock said.

John remained still.

"I need medical assistance." Sherlock told him.

John rolled over and snapped his bedside lamp on. He quickly assessed Sherlock. There was no outward sign of injury; there was no shaking, his face was neither pale nor fevered, and he was perfectly steady on his feet. Though his eyes looked worried, he flashed a quick, apologetic smile at John.

John turned the lamp off again. "You're fine. Go away." He said, and rolled back over.

"I'm not fine." Sherlock told him. "I'm malfunctioning."

John stayed still.

"I think there's something wrong with me." Sherlock persisted.

"No arguments from me there." John told him.

"I need help!" Sherlock said.

"Yes, and I need sleep!" John told him, crossly. He looked at the clock. "Scarlet is going to wake me up in three hours and demand a full day of entertainment. She's already woken up twice tonight, so to be frank, Sherlock, you can sod off until the morning."

Sherlock sighed. "Fine." He said.

John breathed a sigh of relief. He caught his breath again a second later when he realised the Sherlock had toed off his shoes, slipped his coat off and had got onto the bed with him. He appeared to be calmly lying on the covers, leaning against the headboard.

"What are you doing?" John asked him, wearily.

"I'm waiting. Go ahead; go back to sleep." Sherlock told him.

"You can't wait in my bed. You can wait in the lounge, in the kitchen, or ideally, in your own flat."

"I'm not in your bed; I'm on your bed." Sherlock told him. "And all those other places are too far away."

John rubbed his face. He sighed. Finally he rolled over and snapped the lamp back on. "OK. Fine." He said. "Why don't you tell me the symptoms of this... malfunction, and I'll tell you to sod off. Sorry, I mean I'll tell you what's wrong with you."

Sherlock looked at him for a moment. "No, you're tired and grumpy; go back to sleep and we'll talk in the morning."

John groaned to himself. "No; I'm awake now, I'm not going to sleep with you lying there anyhow; tell me what's bothering you."

"I've just finished a case."

"I figured." John said, yawning. "You haven't been about so I deduced there was a case."

"There was." Sherlock said. "I found it... disturbing."

"Disturbing?" John frowned. He went through a mental list of Sherlock's cases. He didn't recall the detective finding any of them disturbing before, even on the occasions when he, with his experience in both emergency and military medicine, had found the events physically sickening.

"There was this boy." Sherlock told him. "He went missing a couple of days ago and Lestrade called me in."

"You've dealt with missing kids before." John reminded him. "Why was this one different?"

"I don't know!" Sherlock said. "That's what I'm saying; he shouldn't have been. But he was. He was just over two, and I was in his bedroom and all I could think was 'Scarlet's got that book'. Usually when that happens I just stop thinking about it, but it kept coming back. I had no control over it at all."

"So?" Said John. "Sometimes you think about things you don't want to. Sounds perfectly normal to me."

"Yes, for other people, but not for me." Sherlock said. "And it got worse! Lestrade brought the bloody parents in and I could barely hear them. I just kept looking at them, thinking about how terrified they were and how sad they'd be if it all went wrong."

"Well, obviously they were terrified, Sherlock. What did you expect?"

"No, you don't understand." He said. "Yes I _know_ they would be terrified; it's a perfectly normal and expected reaction. What I didn't expect was for me to be terrified right along with them."

John smiled at him. "What?"

"No, I'm serious, John; my heart was racing, my mouth was dry. I had all the symptoms of a panic attack. It nearly crowded everything else out. It didn't, and I got on with the job; but it was horrible! Why on Earth would something like that happen? Obviously my preference was to get the child back alive but ultimately it didn't matter to me at all; I'd never met him, I'd never met them. Whether he returned or not would have no impact on my life. So why was I almost in tears looking at his parents?"

John looked at him. "It's called sympathy, Sherlock. You sympathised with them. This isn't the first time this has happened. I know it's not."

"No, it's the second, or maybe third," Sherlock agreed, 'but it's the first time it's happened on a case with people I've never met. It's the first time I've not been able to make it stop. It continued through the whole thing; thinking of Martin, thinking of his parents... every time I tried to get something done they'd be back inside my head. I don't want people in my head; I'm barely happy with my own thoughts. I don't need more put in there by other people."

"They're not putting thoughts into your head, Sherlock. It's all you. It's sympathy. It's caring."

"Well how do I make it stop?" Sherlock asked.

"You don't. Most people don't want it to stop."

"Well I'm not most people." Sherlock said. "I want it to stop; especially if it gets in the way of my work."

John looked at him. "You didn't find him?" he said, sounding hollow.

Sherlock shook his head. "It was too late."

"I'm sorry." John said quietly.

"No, it wasn't my fault; it was always too late. He was dead before they'd even called the police. And I caught the man who murdered him, so ultimately it was a satisfactory outcome. So why I can't stop thinking about his parents is beyond me. This is not normal; not for me!"

He glanced over at John and suddenly noted that his eyes were full of tears.

"You see!" Sherlock said. "You're doing it too! You're thinking of his parents aren't you? Well it's fine for you; I don't do this!"

"God, Sherlock." John said, wiping his face. "Could you just stop?"

"No, that's what I'm saying; I can't stop thinking about these things. I can't stop thinking about his parents and thinking about what I'd feel if it was Scarlet!"

John shook his head and rolled onto his side so he was facing away from Sherlock. Sherlock frowned at him.

"John? What's wrong?" he asked.

"Please, Sherlock, please just stop talking." John said heavily. Though he was facing away, Sherlock could clearly see him wiping his face.

"John, if anyone hurt Scarlet like that, I'd kill them. You know that don't you?" Sherlock told him.

John didn't say anything. Sherlock was thrown by John's reaction. He thought about John for a moment. "I imagine I wouldn't be first in line, would I?" he said quietly.

"Sherlock..." John started, and then stopped. Sherlock waited. "Sherlock, if anything like that happened to Scarlet, I don't think I'd be able to get up again, ever. You could do what you wanted to anyone at all; be my guest. But I wouldn't be able to get up again. I only could after Mary because I had to. Because of her."

Sherlock stared at the wall for a while, taking all of this in. He took a deep breath and sighed. "I'm sorry." He said.

John didn't respond for a moment. After a while he rolled back onto his back and looked at Sherlock. "Sorry; I don't think I've been able to offer you the kind of advice you need, have I?"

"No, actually I think you have." Sherlock said. "I was thinking on the way over that I should perhaps say goodbye. To you and Scarlet. I don't want to, but it's getting in the way of my work. You two are and added complication that I don't need. Then I got here and looked at her and changed my mind."

"Good." John told him.

"No," he went on, "now I've changed it back again. I don't think I should visit any more. I think I upset you. I don't mean to, but I do. You have enough going on; I'm... an added complication that you don't need. You need to focus on you and Scarlet."

John stared at him. "Sherlock? What the hell do you think friends are? Most of the time it's fine and fun and great, but at some point or another they will be an added complication that you don't need. That's kind of the point of being friends. You help each other through stuff; complicated for you, but helpful for them, and at another time it might be the other way round. Didn't you know that?"

Sherlock frowned. "That doesn't make any sense." He said.

"Yeah, well I'd probably be more sensible if it wasn't 2:30 in the morning and if six months of very expensive therapy had even vaguely started working." John told him. "Look, it's up to you; personally I'd like to think that the fun stuff with Scarlet would be worth the inconvenience of occasionally caring about some random stranger. But if you can't handle it, then fine, stay away. I'd be pissed off with you, to be frank, but to be perfectly honest, I don't think you could stay away anyhow. Sociopath or not, you love Scarlet. That's why you care about Martin's parents, but it's also why you can't stay away." He yawned again.

"For my part," John went on, "I find that occasionally being upset by something you've said is worth it for all the other stuff. I have no intention of not visiting in the future."

Sherlock digested this. "What other stuff." He asked.

"Oh, I don't know." John said tiredly. "Things like, when I've been rudely awoken in the middle of the night you take care of Scarlet in the morning so I can get a lie-in. That sort of thing. You go and think about all of this in the living room, and in the morning, tell me what you've decided or leave a note or something. But right now; I'm going back to sleep." He flicked off the lamp again.

He felt the mattress move as Sherlock got up and left the room.

In the morning, when he woke up at 8:30 and noticed Sherlock's shoes still on his bedroom floor, he knew that it was all fine.


	36. Father's Day

**Father's Day**

**Quite a few prompts mashed up in here. Unfortunately I can't quite find them all (sorry; I'm dizzily tired; it's remiss of me but I will find all the prompts and put them in order later so I can properly credit people). **

**Also, I've been missing Scarlet in the past few chapters, so this one is Scarlet a-plenty.**

**

* * *

**_Five_

Sherlock was in the front room with Scarlet. She was hiding behind one armchair and he was hiding behind the other. They were taking it in turns to sneak out, trying not to be seen by the other. Periodically one would leap on the other. There was a fair amount of laughing going on.

Mrs Hudson knocked, and peered in "Woo-hoo!" she said. "Just the two of you? It sounded like it was a whole discotheque from downstairs!"

Sherlock lay down on his back so he could see her. "Sorry Mrs H." He said.

"Sorry!" echoed Scarlet crawling out from behind her chair.

"Is John in?" Mrs Hudson asked.

"No, he's out shopping." Sherlock told her.

"Oh good; I wanted to remind you that it's Father's day tomorrow."

Sherlock frowned. "My Father is dead, Mrs Hudson." He said.

"Yes I know, dear, but John isn't." She clarified.

"John isn't my Father." Sherlock said, blankly.

"You know, for someone who keeps telling people how clever he is, you really can be quite dim at times, Sherlock." She said.

Sherlock frowned again. "Oooff." He said as Scarlet came and sat down heavily on his stomach. He looked up at her, her hair a tangled mess of soft, golden brown curls and her eyes sparkling blue. In his mind a few things swam into focus. "Shall we go shopping, Turnip?" He asked her.

"I knew you'd get there in the end." Mrs Hudson said, turning round and walking down the stairs.

Before they left he had a quick check on The List. There was nothing there about not taking Scarlet shopping. He dressed her in what he decided was appropriate clothing. He brushed her hair with difficulty and failed entirely to get it to stay in a pony-tail. He checked the list again and sure enough he was not allowed to cut her hair, even if he thought it was impairing her vision.

"You'll have to do." He told her. He sent a quick text to John telling him he'd taken her out and held his hand out to her. She took it and they walked out onto the street. They immediately returned so that Scarlet could use the bathroom, but then they were on their way.

"Right," Sherlock said to her while walking along the road, "what are we going shopping for?"

"A card for Daddy." She dutifully recited back.

"Good. Anything else?"

"Ice Cream."

"No, I didn't say ice cream." Sherlock told her.

"A pony?" She asked.

"No," said Sherlock, patiently. "Something for Daddy."

"A card." She said.

Sherlock sighed. "Yes, we said a card, something else for Daddy."

"A puppy?" She asked, hopefully.

"No, Scarlet." Said Sherlock, giving up. "A present. A card and a present, both for Daddy. OK?"

"OK." She said.

"Good. Now what do you think Daddy would like as a present?" He asked her.

"A puppy." She said, with certainty.

"I don't think so." Sherlock said.

"A monkey?" She suggested.

He stared at her like she was mad. "Why on Earth would he want a monkey?"

"He says he likes monkeys. He says 'You're a cheeky monkey, but it's OK because I like cheeky monkeys'". She looked up at Sherlock.

"Well, let's assume one monkey in the household is enough." He said to her. "What else does he like?"

"Er... chips, jumpers, sleeping, me, you... and beer." She told him.

Sherlock thought about this. It seemed an unlikely list. "Let's just see what they've got." He said.

"What would you want as a present?" She asked him.

"A pancreas." He said, scanning up and down the road for a cab. He looked down at her and she was frowning at him. "It's very hard to find a human pancreas in decent condition that's helpfully been donated for research." He explained.

She continued frowning. "If a doggy was to marry a monkey, what would their children be?" She asked him.

oOo

Sherlock was particularly pleased that the card shop had a whole section ladled 'Father's Day' that had a wealth of cards to choose from (Scarlet selected on with a picture of a monkey on it), and a variety of gifts. They both agreed that anything related to either Football or Golf was out, so from the selection left over they chose a mug and a key-ring, both declaring that John was the 'World's Greatest Dad'. Sherlock briefly suggested that it was an unscientific award if they weren't able to evaluate all the other Dads in the world, but Scarlet was having none of it.

After that, Sherlock found he was in desperate need of a coffee so he lead her into the Costa next door and bought her an enormous Chocolate milkshake.

He took his mobile phone out of his pocket and quickly checked his email and the news bulletins. He glanced up and noticed Scarlet looking at him intently.

"Sherlock, what are you?" She asked him.

"I'm a consulting detective." Sherlock told her and went back to his email.

"No," She told him, "I mean, you're not my Dad, because Dad's my Dad, and you're not my Mum because she's dead and Mum's have to be ladies. So what are you?"

"Erm, the jury's still out, but I'm gunning for Step-Father at the moment." He said to her. He gave her a worried smile.

"That's what I thought too." She said, and went back to her milkshake.

He smiled at her properly, and then went back to his phone.

"The thing is," Scarlet went on, "that Millie at school has a new Step-Dad, because he's married to her Mum and she has to call him 'Dad' now, but she doesn't like it, and she says her real Dad doesn't like it either and when she told him he drank too much beer and then he got crazy and was sick and the police came and she had to go back to her Mum's."

Sherlock stared at her.

"So what should I call you?" She asked.

"Sherlock. Sherlock's fine." He said. "Much better than Uncle Sherlock, which is vile, and inaccurate."

"Good." She told him. "Because I don't want Dad to drink too much beer like Millie's Dad."

He looked at her. "You don't need to worry about that, Scarlet. Not ever; he wouldn't do that."

"OK." She said.

"Good." He told her. "Well, I'm glad we had this little chat."

"The thing is," she said, "when I told Millie that I had a Step-Dad too, James Turner heard me and he said that that was illegal because a Step-Dad had to be married to a Mum, and I haven't got a Mum, then Serene said that he was a liar because I did have a Dad and a Step-Dad and it's not illegal have two Dads, and when he came in the next day he said he'd asked his Mum and she said it was true but you must be well gay." She looked at him. He was staring at her, gobsmacked. "I don't know what that means." She said. "So are you?"

He stared out of the window for a few moments, thinking. He was absolutely certain that talking to Scarlet about the variety and wealth of human sexuality was one of those things that wasn't on The List, but that _really_ should be. Besides which, he hadn't the slightest clue where he would start with such a topic. Answering either 'yes' or 'no' would be entirely inaccurate and answering 'something in-between' would surely only lead to more questions, as would 'neither'. He couldn't even fall back on repeating what he'd been told as a child as he was simply handed a text-book and expected to work it out. On reflection, he thought, this probably explained a lot. He looked at Scarlet who was looking at him expectantly.

"I think it must be a Muggy." He said.

"What?" She asked.

"A cross between a Doggy and a Monkey." He explained. "It must be a Muggy, because otherwise it would be a Donkey and that's something else entirely."

She giggled. "What about a penguin married to a hippopotamus?" She asked.

oOo

When they got home, Sherlock handed Scarlet in through the kitchen door. "She wants to know if I'm well gay." He told John, before disappearing out again.

John looked at Scarlet, who was looking at him expectantly. He walked past her and into the lounge where Sherlock was lying on the sofa with his eyes closed.

"Well, what did you tell her?" He asked.

"I told her a cross between a doggy and a monkey was a muggy. I know there are a million things wrong with that statement but I panicked." He said, without opening his eyes. "Do we have any paracetamol?"

John was fully prepared to mock Sherlock thoroughly, but looking at him lying there, and knowing how persistent Scarlet could be if the mood took her, he found he felt mildly sympathetic. He went to get paracetamol and water which he put on the coffee table, before taking Scarlet back into the kitchen for a chat.

He gently explained that sometimes men loved women, and sometimes they love other men, but it wasn't really relevant between John and Sherlock. What was relevant was that they both loved _her_ a huge amount, and they both looked after her fairly equally, and _that's_ why Sherlock was her step-father. He explained that not every family works the same way, and some people only had one parent and some had three or four, so there's no point comparing really. Sherlock, listening from the sofa, wondered why he hadn't thought of that. A short while later, he gathered up the bag with the card and presents in them and he took them up to his room.

oOo

Stupidly early the next morning, John was woken by Scarlet landing heavily on his chest.

"Happy Father's Day!" She said, joyfully, dumping gifts and a card on his face.

He opened the card and smiled as he saw that she had carefully followed the dots that must have been pencilled in by Sherlock to spell out her name. She'd drawn him a picture too.

"What is it?" he asked her.

"It's a Muggy." She told him.

"Ah!" He said. "Well, it's a very nice Muggy."

He looked at the mug, and noted that the words 'As certified by SH' had been added to the bottom of it in permanent ink.

"I've got to give Sherlock his." Scarlet told him, shuffling off the bed and running into Sherlock's room.

He woke up blearily and looked at her.

"Happy Father's day!" she said. "Dad said there isn't a Step-father's day so you'd have to share Father's day. I made you a card."

He smiled as he noted 'To Sherlock love Scarlet' had been dotted out by John for her to follow. There was a picture inside.

"What is it?" he asked.

"It's a pancreas." She told him. "Dad said I have got one but it's inside me so you can't have it. He said he wouldn't take it out of me for you."

"No, it's probably better that you keep it." Sherlock told her.

"I'm going downstairs now." She told him, before disappearing off like a small golden-haired whirlwind.

* * *

**Woot! That's me done for the day! I wouldn't usually have this quantity but the husband's kindly taken the children away for the day. I'm supposed to be sleeping. Don't tell him, will you?**


	37. Courage

**Courage.**

**Again, no prompt. I just think that this is very Scarlet-ish.**

**

* * *

**_Seven_

Scarlet was sat at the kitchen table, allegedly doing her homework, but mostly just staring into space. John was behind her doing trying to get dinner started.

"Scarlet?" he said, "Scarlet!"

She jumped and looked round at him.

"Can you concentrate please? You have half an hour before dinner and you haven't even started yet."

"Yes I have!" She told him. "I'm thinking about it."

"You haven't even opened your school-bag yet." He pointed out.

She stuck her bottom lip out. "Homework's boring." She told him.

"How do you know? You haven't even seen what it is yet; today's might be brilliant." He sat down beside her and pulled her homework folder out of her bag. Looking to see what else was in there, he tutted and sighed. "Scarlet, why are there pebbles in the bottom of your schoolbag?" he asked her.

"I liked them." She told him simply.

"There are letters here too! Why can't you tell me when you've got letters from school?"

"I forgot." She said.

"What's this?" He pulled out a piece of stiff, good quality paper. It had a nice border, and in a nice font it stated it was "St. Matthews and St John's Primary School Special Award for Courage." John looked down at Scarlet. "Scarlet, what is this?" He asked her again.

She glanced at it. "It's a special certificate." She said. "Mr Kennedy gave it me today in assembly. I can't do my homework; I'm stuck."

"You haven't tried yet." John told her absently, "Scarlet; what did you get this certificate for."

She looked at him. "I don't know." She said, and shrugged.

John frowned. "Didn't Mr Kennedy tell you what it was for?" he pressed her.

"Oh, yes; it was because he was proud of me for when Danniella fell down the hole and broke her leg on yesterday."

John frowned, shut his eyes and shook his head. It still didn't make sense. "Scarlet, leave your homework for now. I want you to tell me about this. Did you do something when Danniella fell down and broke her leg?"

"No, not really." She told him, shaking her head. "She was sick, and I guessed it was hurting a lot, so I held her hand and told her it was going to be OK, and to try to breathe calmly, and then she was shivering so I made everyone take their coats off and put them on her, and I put a jumper under her head and I told everyone to stop screaming like God-damn idiots." She looked nervously at John. "Am I in trouble for swearing?" she asked. "Because I wouldn't have said it again, but you asked."

John stared at her. "Wasn't there a teacher there?" he asked.

"Oh, yeah! Miss Streeter was there but she fainted so I told Serene to run and get Mr Simpson from the other playground. I have to admit I was a bit worried about Miss Streeter because I thought she might have hit her head, but I didn't want to leave Danniella alone and I couldn't get anyone else to do anything at all, so I left her until Mr Simpson came, and then just told him."

John was still staring at her not speaking. She went on. "Mr Simpson did say I was allowed to stay with Danniella until the ambulance came, so that was why I didn't go in when the bell rang. Am I in trouble?" She asked again. "Because it doesn't seem fair when he did say I could stay."

"No. No, you are most definitely not in trouble."

"Good." She said. "Are you going to help with my homework now?"

"You know; let's leave homework for tonight. "We'll do it tomorrow or Sunday. And I think we should do something nice tomorrow too; what should we do? The Zoo?"

Scarlet stared at him utterly confused.

Sherlock came into the kitchen.

Scarlet and John both spoke to him at once.

"Dad said we can go to the zoo tomorrow!"

"Look! Look what Scarlet got at school!"

John handed the certificate over to Sherlock.

"Will you come with us?" Scarlet asked Sherlock. "To the zoo."

"What did she do?" Sherlock asked John.

"Only administered basic first aid to a child with a broken leg, while remaining calm and managing the situation and dispatching for help." John said. The pride was glowing off him. Sherlock smiled.

"When was this?" He asked.

"Yesterday."

"Oh, so that's why all the children were coming out with such a high level of noise and excitement." He said. He looked at Scarlet. "Why didn't you tell me when I picked you up?"

She shrugged. "It didn't seem important."

Sherlock stared at her. "But you told me about pebbles." He said.

"They were nice pebbles." She said.

John suddenly giggled. Scarlet looked at him, confused. She was more confused when Sherlock joined in with his low, quiet chuckle.

"What is it?" She asked. "What's funny."

"Nothing." John said, trying to control himself. "It's just that sometimes you are incredibly like... well, Sherlock." He finished.

"Your Dad." Sherlock had said at the same time.

They looked at each other again and giggled some more.

"You're both very silly." Scarlet said, sounding slightly cross.

John leaned over to give her a quick hug and a kiss. Sherlock walked over to the fridge and stuck the certificate on it with a magnet.

"Right, I'm going to nip to the corner and get ice-cream for pudding." John said, grabbing his keys.

"Maybe I should tell you two more stuff." Scarlet said, quietly.

"Mmmm. I've found it doesn't always work to your advantage." Sherlock told her. "Sometimes you tell people things and they don't like it."

"How do you know which is which?" She asked.

"I don't." Sherlock said. He smiled at her.

* * *

**Right, I really cannot keep going at this speed. Especially as once or twice this weekend quality has suffered slightly.**

**I have, however got a half written chapter on my desktop wherein Scarlet and Molly chat. If I get chance today I will finish it but the children are due back any second. I've also got a barely started one called 'The List' which might go up at some point, or not. My plan is to update this one at weekends, and try to focus on the NaNo during the week. And if I can I'll squeeze 'converse with husband and children' in there somewhen. Oh and working 37 hours a week; should try and do that too.  
**

**Yes, the vast majority of this weekend's work comes squarely under the heading of 'procrastination'. **


	38. Death

**Death.**

**Despite the title; this is non-angst, or it was meant to be but it strayed into the philosophical.  
**

**Several people have asked about Molly, and suggested particularly the young Scarlet giving her advice. This doesn't quite sit with that, but it seemed to me that Molly was due a turn with Scarlet and her annoyingly complicated questions.**

**Oh, and once again; not all opinions expressed are my opinions. They just felt like plausible opinions for the characters involved.**

**

* * *

**_Five_

John walked into Molly's lab, with Scarlet trailing in his wake. Molly looked up from the microscope and smiled warmly at them as they came in.

"Thanks again for this, Molly." John said to her, looking stressed and anxious. "I've finally managed to get hold of Sherlock and he's on his way; he'll pick her up from here unless I'm finished first, but I'm not sure how long this will take."

"It's fine, John, it's really fine!" she said. "Besides, it will be good practise from when this one comes along." Molly ran her hand over her bump.

John's mood seemed to lift for a moment as he smiled at Molly. "You know, I'm not sure if I've said it recently, but many congratulations, Molly. I'm really, really happy for you."

Molly returned his smile. She looked blissful. "Thank you, John. You'd better go; it's not a good start to keep the panel waiting."

"No," John agreed, "especially when you're already behind on points because you had to sneak your daughter in because your childcare fell through." He looked down at Scarlet. "Be good, won't you, Scarlet. Try not to get in the way." He dashed out again.

Molly looked at Scarlet. Scarlet looked at Molly.

"I brought stuff to do." Scarlet told her. "So you don't have to talk to me or anything."

"I don't mind talking to you!" Molly told her, surprised.

"Really?" Scarlet said, frowning. "But you're working."

"Well, yes, but I can work and talk at the same time." Molly told her.

Scarlet's eyes grew wide. "You must be really, _really_ clever."

Molly laughed. "No, not really." She said. "Well, I'm clever enough to do my job well, but I'm not as clever as Uncle Sherlock for example."

"He's not my Uncle." Scarlet told her. "He's my step-father."

"Oh." Said Molly, frowning slightly. She had assumed that John was living with Sherlock simply for convenience, but she suddenly felt slightly ashamed of herself for the assumption.

"Oh what?" Scarlet asked.

"Nothing." Molly said. "I was just thinking that it's nice that your Dad and Sherlock love each other."

"Really?" Scarlet thought about this. "I suppose it's nice. Dad says it's irreverent."

"He says it's what?" Molly said, confused.

"Irreverent." Scarlet looked at Molly who was clearly confused. She sighed. "Sometimes two men love each other, but it's irreverent. It really doesn't matter that Dad and Sherlock love each other because that's _really_ irreverent." She stared at Molly, slightly disappointed in her that she had to put this in such simple terms for her. "It's irreverent, because they both love me." She explained.

"Oh!" Molly said, the light dawning. "It's irrelevant. I see." She gave Scarlet a sidelong glance. "Does Sherlock sleep in the same bed as your Dad?" she tried to keep her voice light.

"Oh yes." Scarlet told her. "They had to because Sherlock's bed melted. First Sherlock slept on the sofa but that didn't work because I woke him up too early, so Dad said he could share with him, but then he got too cross because Sherlock was so wiggly, and then he said he had to get his arse in gear and buy a new bed."

"Right." Said Molly. She decided to get the conversation back on track. "Do you want to do what you brought with you, or do you want to have a look in my microscope."

"Microscope." Scarlet said instantly.

Molly helped her up onto a high stool, and lingered close by in case she fell. Scarlet kneeled up and put her eyes to the eye-pieces.

"What is it?" She asked.

"It's blood." Molly told her.

Scarlet sat back and looked at her. "But it's got bits in it." She said.

"Yes, all blood has bits in it." Molly told her.

"Why do you have to look at it?" Scarlet asked.

"It's just a quick look really; it's one of the things I look at to try to work out why someone's died."

Scarlet's face took on a thoughtful expression. "So did that blood with the bits in it come from someone who died?"

"Yes, that's right." Molly said.

"Who was it? That died?" Scarlet asked.

Molly was momentarily startled. This conversation was going places she didn't want it to, very quickly.

"Er, well, this blood came from a man who died in an accident. You know what an accident is?"

"It's when I wet my bed." Scarlet told her, promptly.

"Yes, but this wasn't that kind of accident; it was more the kind when something falls, or someone falls down or crashes and someone gets hurt."

Scarlet thought about this. "Who was he? Was he someone's Dad? Where are all the other bits of him?" She asked.

"Er, well, he was a man, I didn't know him and he's still all together, in a very special room being looked after." She said.

"Where?" Scarlet asked. "Can I see? Is my Mum there?"

"No. Maybe we should talk about something else, Scarlet."

Scarlet was not to be deterred. "What do dead people look like? Are they the same as when they were alive? Because Serene said that people go mouldy and worms eat them, but Tessa says people get burned up, and Miss Streeter says that people go to Heaven when they die, but how can they if they're mouldy or burned up?"

Molly sat down and looked at Scarlet for a long time. "What does your Dad say happens?"

"He says when you die you go to Heaven, and that's where Mum is, watching me."

"Well, that's probably where she is then."

"But Dad doesn't like to talk about Mum, so I checked with Sherlock about Heaven and he said that I shouldn't fill my head with such nonsense." She said. "And he said it was like when we found the dead fox in the alleyway and that was definitely mouldy and it was being eaten by something, so Serene's probably right."

Molly stared at her. "You know; forget what I said about Sherlock. He's not clever at all; he's a very, very stupid man who knows nothing about anything." She sounded upset.

"Are you cross with me?" Scarlet asked tentatively. "Sorry. I shouldn't talk about Mum; it makes people upset."

"No, no; it's not that." Molly sighed and then turned Scarlet's stool round so she was facing her. "Sorry. OK, let me try to explain. This; all of this that makes you..." she patted Scarlet's legs and arms, "all of this is exactly the same as other people's bodies; there are a few little differences but basically we're all made from the same stuff. But that doesn't mean that you're the same as everyone else. The bits that makes you _you_, Scarlet Watson, different from me, Molly Hooper, well those are bits that you can't see under a microscope. Some people call those bits all together your soul. So your body is really just a house to carry your soul around in."

"Sherlock says it's transport."

"Yes, well on that he might be right. Anyhow, when you die, the bits and pieces that are the house, or the transport; it doesn't matter what happens to them, but the soul; the bit that makes you _you_, that bit goes up to Heaven."

She looked at Scarlet. She had a sudden panic that she may have gone too far. "Well that's what some people think anyway. No-one knows for sure what happens; we can see what happens to the body but we can't see what happens to the soul or even whether the soul really exists, so anyone who says there definitely is a Heaven might be wrong, and anyone who says there's definitely not might be wrong too."

"So how do you know which is right?" Scarlet asked her.

"You don't. You'll just know what feels right to you. But don't let anyone tell you one way or another because they really don't know for sure. Not even Sherlock bloody Holmes."

Scarlet smiled. "That's what Dad calls him when he's cross with him. I'm not allowed to say bloody though."

Molly calmed herself down. "No, well, you probably shouldn't."

"Do I have to choose today?" Scarlet asked her.

"No. You don't have to choose at all if you don't want to, and if you do you don't have to choose forever. You can change your mind as much as you like."

There was a knock on the door and Sherlock poked his head round it.

"Ah, there you are." He said. "Sorry; I got delayed."

"Oh good, you're here." Molly said to him curtly while walking over to him. "I need a quick word with you." She pushed him back out the door and followed him into the corridor.

"We probably shouldn't leave Scarlet alone in the lab." He pointed out. "She tends to fiddle with things."

"This won't take a moment. I just want to know why the hell you told that child that her Mother was mouldy and being eaten by maggots like the dead fox you found in an alleyway." His eyes widened. "What possessed you to say such a thing?" Molly demanded.

"I didn't!" He protested. "I would never..." he thought for a moment, rifling through filed conversations. "Oh, I may have suggested that dead things decay but we were talking in very general terms."

"And you don't think she can put two and two together?" Molly asked, eyes blazing.

"No, I know she can't." Sherlock said. "She doesn't understand numbers at all."

Molly blinked, then recovered. "Well one thing she can add up is that if you; her hero and the most intelligent person she knows, tells her that things rot when they die, then that's what's happened to her dead mother!"

"But I didn't mean that!" Sherlock said. "I didn't even think about Mary. Though, logically..."

"Sherlock, you have to be a bit careful when talking to her." Molly snapped at him. "She doesn't know what happened to her Mum; she just knows she's dead and her Dad doesn't like talking about her, so she's going to come to you. If you start off by remembering that, then you might find that conversations with her start going a bit differently."

Sherlock stepped backwards and leaned against the wall. "Molly, this is a lot harder than I thought it was going to be." He looked at the door, behind which there was a child who's image of her mother he may have been irrevocably destroyed. He turned back to Molly. "I can't lie to her. I can't tell her I believe something that I don't. It's... disrespectful; she deserves better than that."

"Well no," Molly said, "But it's not hard to explain what you believe without diminishing and belittling everyone else's beliefs."

Sherlock frowned. "Isn't it?" He asked. It was a genuine question. "And what if she grows up believing _everything_? She's not discerning; not even remotely. She thinks unicorns exist and fairy tales are true historical events. Something I prove to her through hours of scientific method holds the same weight as a passing comment or a cartoon that she's seen once."

"Well yes, Sherlock; she's five." Molly told him. "As she gets older, she'll probably start working out the difference, but things like Heaven and God and that; that's for her to decide."

"But what if she decides wrong?" He persisted.

"She won't, Sherlock. She might end up believing in something you don't, but that's not 'wrong'." Sherlock looked like he disagreed. "It' isn't." She insisted. "I know all sorts of people who believe all sorts of different stuff and none of it's a problem. Not nearly so much as the people who don't think about stuff at all but follow blindly because they only believe what they've been told to believe." She was impassioned.

Sherlock looked at her for a long time. "You used to be scared of me." He finally said.

She laughed. "Yes. And then I grew up."

"What happened?" He asked. "Was it that business with... Jim?"

"No. It took a while to get over that, but in the end it was Mary."She said. He looked surprised. "She sat me down and gave me a good talking to." She told him.

"What did she say?" Sherlock asked, intrigued.

Molly hesitated. "I don't think I'm going to tell you that." She said. "But it was a good talk. We should go back in. You are right about leaving a five year old alone in a lab. I think Mary would give me another talking to for that."

"Oh, you'd have time." Sherlock told her with a smile. "It would be years before she'd be finished with me."

They went back in and both stopped in the doorway, surprised. Not only was the lab still in one piece, but Scarlet seemed to have refrained from eating anything poisonous. She'd taken her sketchpad out of her bag and was diligently copying out everything she could see through the microscope.

She looked up when they came in. "Look, Sherlock!" She said, gleeful at his presence. "This is blood, only it's got bits in it when you make it really big."

"Cells." He said. She frowned at him so he walked up to her. "The bits in blood are cells. Blood cells." He looked at the sketchpad. "This is remarkably accurate." He told her with a slight frown.

She smiled at him. "What are they for? Blood cells?"

"They carry oxygen and nutrients around the body to the organs." He told her. "Everything's made of cells, they're the building blocks of everything."

She nodded and smiled and went back to her work.

"I don't think you need to be too concerned about her growing up without a good grasp of science, Sherlock." Molly whispered to him.

He smiled.

* * *

**Right; if you see be again before next Saturday, tell me to sod off and get on with the novel. Of course this means I'll spend next weekend spamming your inboxes again, with all the things I've thought of for Scarlet during the week, so sorry in advance.**


	39. Appendicitis

**Appendicitis.**

**Again; no prompt. Again, procrastination.  
**

**

* * *

**_Five_

John lathered the shampoo into Scarlet's hair.

"So, you remember that I'm going out tonight?" He asked her. "But Sherlock will be here for in case you wake up." He hoped so, anyhow.

Sherlock had dashed out an hour before muttering something about a case. He was trying to give his friend the benefit of the doubt, but he had noticed Sherlock had been particularly snappish and bad tempered today, and he couldn't help wonder if he'd made up a late case in order to prevent John going out.

"Where are you going?" Scarlet asked him.

"Just out with a friend. But I'll read you your bedtime story before I go."

"Sherlock reads my bedtime story." She told him.

"Well, yes, usually. But I thought I could do it today." John told her.

"Who are you going out with?" Scarlet asked him. "Is it Sherlock?"

John looked at her, patiently. "No, I'm not going out with Sherlock; Sherlock will be here with you so he can't be out with me at the same time."

Scarlet thought about this. "Who then?"

"I'm going out with a friend called Angela." He told her.

"Does Angela have a dog?" Scarlet asked.

John smiled, wondering why he'd been worried about telling her. "No, I don't think so. I think she has a cat though." John told her.

The front door slammed and John heard Sherlock coming up the stairs. He felt slightly guilty for his previous uncharitable thoughts.

"What's her cat called?" Scarlet asked.

"I don't know..." he broke off as Sherlock opened the door.

Sherlock stood there, blinking and swaying slightly as he took in the scene. Then he shook his head and muttered, "Oh God! I'm sorry, John!"

"Are you OK?" John asked him with a frown.

Sherlock took three steps towards the toilet, fell forward and proceeded to be not OK, quite violently.

"Is Sherlock being sick?" Scarlet asked. "He is! He's being sick! Did he have too much milkshake?"

"No, leave Sherlock alone, Scarlet. Come on, let's rinse you off." He said, grabbing a jug and dowsing her with water.

"It's in my eyes!" She squealed.

"It'll dry." John told her shortly.

Sherlock stopped retching and apologised again, and John gave his shoulder a quick squeeze before grabbing a towel for Scarlet.

"No!" She instantly wailed. "I want to play in the bath."

"Well you can't." John snapped and picked her up into the towel. "Come on, we can dry you in the lounge."

Just as he got to the lounge his mobile phone stopped ringing. He rolled his eyes then put Scarlet down to attempt to dry her off. She didn't make it easy. After he'd managed a rough dry of her hair and a quick pat down his phone started ringing again. Sighing, he quickly grabbed it and as it was Lestrade calling, he decided he'd better answer it.

"Greg?"

"Yeah, John, have you seen Sherlock? He disappeared from a crime scene a while back." Lestrade asked him.

"Yeah, he's here. He's a bit... unwell."

"Ah, that would explain it. He doesn't often leave mid-sentence."

"No." Said John.

Scarlet had taken the opportunity to turn her towel into a set of wings and was running round the living room shouting "I'm a naked Princess-fairy!" She disappeared out of the room.

"What's wrong with him?" Asked Lestrade. "Is he OK?"

"What?" said John.

"I think Sherlock's being sick again!" Scarlet came to tell him, excitedly.

"Thanks, Scarlet, could you please leave him alone." John begged her.

"Is there anything I can do?" Lestrade asked.

"Er, yes, get off the phone." John told him. "Sorry, I'll call you later." He hung up. He looked at his daughter. "Right, let's get you dressed." He told her.

Before he'd even managed to gather her clothes there was a huge thud from the bathroom. John cursed. "Wait here." He told Scarlet.

"Daddy! You said a naughty word!" she said as she followed him back to the bathroom.

Sherlock was unconscious on the floor. John quickly rolled him over, registering the fever as he did so, and was relieved that Sherlock was already waking again. It looked like he'd hit his head on the way down though.

"Wha..." he murmured.

"It's OK, you just fainted. Stay steady." John told him. "Don't try to sit up; lay back down." He put a towel on the floor for him to rest his head on.

"That's not a pillow, it's a towel!" Scarlet told him.

"Scarlet, could you_ please_ go downstairs and watch the TV." John begged her. Quite futilely as it turned out.

"John, I think I've been poisoned." Sherlock whispered to him.

"Poisoned? When?" John asked him, concerned.

"Poisoned?" Scarlet parroted. "By an apple? Snow White was poisoned. Is Sherlock going to die?"

"I don't know." Sherlock whimpered to John while they both ignored Scarlet. He was shaking uncontrollably. "It hurts!" he wailed slightly. He closed his eyes and gripped onto John's arm.

John shook himself free so he could examine Sherlock properly. He pressed firmly but gently across his torso watching Sherlock's face. When he got to his abdomen, on his right hand side he could feel a swollen and distended mass. He felt it very tentatively but Sherlock yelled out in pain anyhow. He swore loudly then cried slightly, gritting his teeth.

"Now Sherlock said a naughty word." Scarlet said, quite darkly.

"Scarlet!" John said to her, exasperated.

"Does Sherlock need a hug?" she asked.

"No." John told her, firmly. "Go and wait downstairs."

"I _do_ need a hug." Sherlock whimpered.

John smiled and gave his hand a quick squeeze. "Sherlock, you have appendicitis. You'll be fine, but I need you to wait here and don't move while I get rid of Scarlet and make some calls."

He let go of his hand, and gently pushed Scarlet towards her room. He managed to dress her in record time, mostly by not asking her to help, but just pushing limbs where they were supposed to go. She regaled him with stories of every time she'd ever been sick, ever. He grabbed her duvet and pillow from her bed and hustled her towards Mrs Hudson's flat.

Scarlet started up as soon as Mrs Hudson opened her door.

"Mrs Hudson! Mrs Hudson, Sherlock's been _poisoned_!" She told her with wide eyes.

Mrs Hudson looked up at John with worried eyes.

"No, he hasn't." He quickly told her. "It's appendicitis; can you take Scarlet for a few hours while I take him to the hospital?"

"Oh of course." Mrs Hudson said. "Oh the poor boy. Is there anything I can do?"

"No, just... keep Scarlet from destroying the Earth." He smiled at her.

"Oh she's a love." Mrs Hudson gushed. "She'll be no trouble at all. She's quiet as a mouse!"

John frowned, wondering if they were talking about the same girl, but decided he hadn't got time to argue. He made a quick bed up on the sofa while Mrs Hudson found something child friendly to watch.

"Scarlet, please be good." He said as he left, sticking the front door on the latch as he passed it.

He dashed up to grab his phone from the front room and and Sherlock's from his coat pocket. He used Sherlock's to call an ambulance, and trotted out location, symptoms and diagnosis and while he kept that line open, he quickly scrolled through his own phone book to Angela's number, desperately hoping it would go straight to voice-mail.

She answered. "John! Hi, is everything OK?" she asked.

"Er, no. Bit of an emergency here; I'm afraid I can't make tonight." He told her quickly.

"Oh no! What's happening?" She asked him.

"Oh, well, I have to take my flatmate to hospital."

"Oh." She said.

He could hear sounds coming from the bathroom. "Look..." He fought to remember her name. "Er, Angela, I've got to go."

He hung up. He hoped she'd accept an apology later, but decided he didn't actually care that much.

Sherlock was in a bad way. John sat down next to him and rested a hand on his leg in a companionable way.

"John?" Sherlock whimpered.

"Hmmm? What do you need?" John asked.

"I'm sorry about your date."

"It's OK. It's fine." John said, gently patting his thigh.

"John?"

"Hmm."

"I lied. I'm glad you're not going out."

John smiled. "I know, Sherlock. I know."

* * *

**Yeah, nothing to see here. Nothing at all. Turns out writing a novel is **_**hard**_**! (I have 3,000 words but I only like about 100 of them). LP **


	40. The List

**The List**

**Don't tell me you're not curious? **

**Again, no real prompt but I'm curious to see how The List started.**

**

* * *

**_A week after 'How to Help?'_

"You know what the problem is?" Sherlock suddenly asked John.

"Yeah, I think it's celery." John responded.

Sherlock looked at him with a frown. They'd both been sat on the sofa, staring at the TV, but each lost in their own thoughts.

"What?" Sherlock asked him.

"Celery." John repeated. He noted Sherlock's blank face. "Mount Vesuvius from earlier; I think she's allergic to celery."

"Oh, that. Well obviously." Sherlock said.

John snorted. "OK, well I won't ask you how long you've known because I suspect you worked it out a few seconds after I just said it." He noted Sherlock's smile and knew he was right. "Sorry; you weren't talking about Scarlet. What is the problem then?"

"Actually, I was talking about the Turnip," Sherlock said, "but the projectile vomiting is irrelevant." He caught John's look. "Well, to me anyhow; not to her. No, the problem to which I refer is this: You seem to have a very specific plan about how you want to raise your daughter, which is fine, by the way, but I don't have access to what your plan is, and that's leading to conflict."

John smiled. "OK." He said.

"Now I've read pretty much every book available in the parenting section of Waterstone's, and I have to admit; I'm stumped. I simply can't work out which method you're following."

"OK." Said John.

Sherlock noticed the smirk on his face and became slightly defensive. "Look, it would be a hell of a lot easier if there was just one book that you were clearly following, and not only is there not, but each of the books seems to contradict at least three others on the market. I've noticed you following some suggestions from some books, but ignoring fairly major sections of them, and then I'll note you do something from a book I'd ruled out because it seemed to be against every other thing you're doing."

"OK." Said John.

"Don't look at me like that!" Sherlock snapped.

"Like what?" John asked, innocently.

"Like I'm very, very stupid. I'm not. I just need to know which book you read and then we can get on the same track, and there would be less conflict." He looked at John who was still smirking. "What!" He demanded. "Why do you feel the need to keep this secret from me? You can't do that and then complain when I get things wrong!"

"You're not stupid, Sherlock, and I'm not trying to keep things secret; I'm not telling you because there is no book." John said, laughing.

"What do you mean?" Sherlock asked, confused.

"I can count the amount of parenting books I've read on the fingers of no hands." John told him.

"You mean to tell me that you embarked on... on _this_," he waved a hand towards Scarlet's bedroom, "without having done even the slightest bit of research on the subject! Do you know how incredibly irresponsible that was?"

John laughed at his appalled face. "No, that's not quite what I'm saying, Sherlock. I talked to people, I read bits and pieces, so did Mary, and we discussed things with each other. If we found value in what we heard or read we used it, and if we didn't, we didn't. To be honest, most of it's just working out what works for me and Scarlet and doing that, and using an amount of common sense."

Sherlock frowned. "Then why can't I do it? I have loads of common sense!"

John laughed. "No you don't!"

"What do you mean?" Sherlock spluttered. "Of course I do!"

"No, I have a theory about that." John told him. He took Sherlock's raised eyebrows as an invitation to continue. "I think that you have exactly the same amount of common sense as anyone else, but you've somehow channelled all of it into one very specific but very tiny area so you're brilliant at that and at everything else, you're... spectacularly ignorant."

Sherlock kicked the coffee table and sat back, disgusted.

"Don't be like that." John told him.

"I'm very clever." Sherlock said, sulkily.

"I don't dispute that." John told him. "You're extraordinary, you're intelligent, you're extremely clever, you're all of those things." John watched as Sherlock tried hard not to soften and smile. "But those things aren't the same as common sense." He finished.

Sherlock sniffed. After a moment, he spoke again. "So if, as you suggest, there is no book..."

"There is no book." John reasserted.

"Well if that's true," Sherlock continued, "how do I know what to do that won't annoy you?"

"You've never been worried about annoying me before." John pointed out. "Occasionally I've thought you were deliberately trying to."

"Yes, well, I don't care about you." Sherlock told him bluntly. "But I don't want to break Turnip. Whatever you've been doing seems to be working so I'll have to do that too."

"Thank you. I think." John said.

"So; if there's no book..."

"There's no book."

"... you'll have to write one." Sherlock finished.

John thought for a moment. "You want me to write a parenting manual."

"Yes. Obviously."

"Based on this 'very specific plan' about how I want to raise her?"

"Yes."

John looked at him. "Sherlock, has it crossed your mind even remotely that I'm just making it all up as I go along?"

Sherlock frowned at him. "You mean that the talking to people and reading 'stuff' and experimenting with scenarios didn't happen before Scarlet was born?"

John laughed again. "No, Sherlock! How could it? I didn't have a child before Scarlet came along!"

"Couldn't you... borrow a child?" Sherlock asked. "You have friends with children."

"You see," John told him, "this is exactly what I meant with the whole common sense thing. No, I couldn't borrow a child and even if I could, I couldn't enact every possible scenario to work out the correct response to it, and even if I could, it wouldn't make any difference because what works for Scarlet works for Scarlet; not for every other child in the universe."

Sherlock appeared to think about this for a while. "So what can we do?" He asked.

"I'll write you a list." John told him. "Not by any means the basis of a manual, but I'll try to think of the things that might happen and offer suggestions about how to deal with them.

"A list?" Sherlock repeated.

"A list."

"And when you say 'offer suggestions about how to deal with them', you mean...?"

"I mean things that you will absolutely do, or not do."

Sherlock thought about this, then leapt up and grabbed the closest laptop and handed it to John.

"You want it typed?" John clarified.

"Of course; your handwriting is terrible."

"And you want me to start now?"

"Yes. No time like the present." Sherlock told him. "Besides, I need to know what you're thinking so I can tell you if I disagree with it." Sherlock told him.

John opened his mouth to counter this, then just rolled his eyes and powered up the computer. He stared at a blank page for a moment. "I don't know where to start." He admitted.

"Well, how about you imagine you've been knocked down by a bus, and I need to take care of Turnip from the moment she gets up to the time she goes to bed. How would I get through my day?"

"I've got one." John said.

He typed:

'_Please stop calling her 'Turnip'.'_

"I thought you liked 'Turnip'!" Sherlock whined.

"I do, well sometimes, but she's a little girl and at some point she might not like it."

"OK, how about adding 'when she asks you to', to that one." Sherlock suggested.

John gave him a look, but did so anyway.

'_Remember she has to eat, and please avoid letting her think that not eating is a good thing.'_

"Why would she think that not eating is a good thing?" Sherlock asked. "It's fine for _me_ but it doesn't work for normal people."

"A, you are a normal person; you need to eat too or you'll faint, as you proved last month when you pitched over in a factory and Lestrade had to drive you home, and B, Scarlet will copy pretty much whatever you do at the moment, so if we want her to eat healthily, you'll have to eat healthily."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John. "Is this some kind of trick?" he asked.

"No. Well, slightly, but it's also true; she spent a good hour of yesterday wearing your jacket and shoes marching round saying "look at me! I'm Sherlock Holmes!" and the day before she was trying to stick bits of paper to her arm like nicotine patches."

"Really?" Sherlock said, unable to hide his proud smile.

"She's stolen your scarf, by the way." John told him. "She was adamant that she couldn't sleep without it."

"That's very sweet." Sherlock said.

"No, it's very disturbing." John replied. "But it's reminded me of another."

'_All nicotine patches, medicines, poisonous substances, and non-poisonous substances that can be mixed to make poisonous and/or explosive substances must be kept well out of reach, ideally in a child-safe cupboard."_

"That seems comprehensive." Sherlock said.

John hesitated. He seemed to be having an internal fight with himself. Eventually, he just said "Yes."

Sherlock studied him. "John, I assure you I will never bring any form of recreational drug into this flat as long as either of you are living here, or even just likely to visit."

"OK." John said. "Thank you." He looked at Sherlock. "You know I would kill you." He told him.

"Yes, but that's not my incentive." Sherlock responded.

"Good."

"Good."

John thought about Scarlet for a moment, then started typing.

'_You are not allowed to cut Scarlet's hair, even if it appears to be obscuring her vision.'_

"Well that's just ridiculous." Sherlock told him. "You prefer her to be unable to see than to have a haircut."

"No," John clarified, "I'd prefer her to be unable to see than have _you_ cutting her hair."

"Well, it's silly, but fine. You're the Dad."

"I am the Dad." John agreed.

'_You will not interfere when I am disciplining Scarlet."_

"I don't!" Sherlock protested.

"You do!" John refuted. "She bit you on the arm and you told me I was being over the top for just removing her from the room."

"She didn't mean to!" Sherlock insisted.

"She left teeth-marks that showed for three days!"

"It was my fault! I should have just given in!"

"What, so you think you should let her have your violin whenever she asks for it, despite the fact that you know she won't be careful, because otherwise she might bite you on the arm? And there's another one."

'_I will not give in to her completely unreasonable demands.'_

"I don't mean to!" Sherlock said.

"And that's fine." John told him. "As long as you'll let me discipline her when she acts up."

"You'd interfere if I was disciplining her!" Sherlock pointed out.

"Too right; I'd punch you on the nose." John agreed.

"You'd do what?" Sherlock was slightly shocked.

"I wouldn't mean to, but if you made Scarlet cry, I'd punch you on the nose. Even if you were right."

Sherlock frowned. "Really?" he asked, quite confused.

"No, not really." John told him. "But I'd probably have to fight every instinct not to."

"But when you make her cry, I'm just supposed to stand idly by."

"Yep." John told him.

Sherlock thought about this. "No." He said.

"What?"

"No, I can't do it." Sherlock clarified. "I won't do it; it's unfair."

"To whom?"

"To me."

John smiled. "OK," he said, deleting that rule. "What about this?"

'_If one person is disciplining Scarlet in a measured and approved fashion for an unreasonable transgression the other will try their utmost not to interfere even if they don't like it because Scarlets crying.'_

"Fine." Sherlock said. He took the laptop from John and started typing.

"What are you doing?" John asked. "This is supposed to be my list!"

Sherlock handed the computer back.

'_Sherlock will be in charge of teaching Scarlet the basic rules of English grammar, spelling and word usage.'_

John opened his mouth to argue, but stopped himself. "Fine." He said. He started typing again.

'_John will be in charge of teaching Scarlet table manners.'_

He raised his eyebrows at Sherlock as a challenge.

"My table manners are fine!" Sherlock snapped.

"Your table manners are appalling." John told him. "You forget what you're doing half way through a meal." He typed again.

'_Scarlet is not to go to crime scenes.'_

"OK." Sherlock said.

"OK?" John queried. "Because I've asked several times before and it hasn't put you off."

"No, it's fine." Sherlock told him. "I won't take her to crime scenes. Except in an emergency."

John looked at him. He added 'Ever' to the line, then highlighted, emboldened, underlined and blew the font up to 20pt.

"OK, you've made your point." Sherlock snapped.

'_Body parts must be kept in Sherlock's room in a locked fridge.'_

Sherlock sighed. "Dull." He said.

"OK, well, lots of parenting is dull. Get used to it." John told him. "I can only think of one more."

'_Try to keep potential murderers outside the building if at all possible. Ditto; murder weapons.'_

"Well that hardly seems fair if you're allowed to keep your gun." Sherlock pointed out. He then frowned. "Where is it, by the way?"

"I'm not telling you." John answered. "If you can't find any of it, then she can't find any of it."

"Really?" Sherlock asked. He looked slightly proud about this.

"It's not a test." John told him. "But obviously I'm not going to keep a gun in working order in the same house as a child."

He could see Sherlock drifting off as he tried to work out where it would be.

"Stop it!" he said crossly and he watched as Sherlock returned to the present. "I think that's enough for now."

Sherlock reviewed the list. "Well, that all seems quite easy." He said. "The books were very long, considering."

"Well, I imagine most of this stuff stays outside of the usual parenting books." John told him. "I'm sure there will be more stuff, but I can always add to it."

"I'll print it and put it on the fridge." Sherlock told him.

John sat back and watched him as he completed this task.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"I just wanted to say... Thank you. For having us here. I like being here, and Scarlet loves being here, and it is... easier. So thank you. And thank you for asking... about all of that."

Sherlock leaned against the kitchen divider. He didn't seem to know what to say. He nodded slightly.

"Good." He said.

"Good." John returned.

* * *

**I'm off sick and needed to do some comfort writing. Don't judge me harshly. Anyhow, I've just noticed I've written over 80,000 words on this, which probably equates to 50,000 in one month so I've sort of already met Nano criteria. I will write the novel, it's still underway, but life just hit a rocky patch so I'm removing that item of pressure.**


	41. The Will

**The Will**

**This one is going to be a mini-arc of at least two chapters. There are some prompts involved; the prominent two being; **

**I'd really like to see one where John is sick or hurt and Sherlock has to somehow find the words to reassure Scarlet. – **_**Richefic**_

**And;**

**but I was wondering if something could happen to John eg car crash or something serious, and Sherlock comes to terms with the fact that he might have to raise Scarlet by himself, or John realises that he can't do this without Sherlock – **_**Katkin.**_

**There is a tiny bit of bad language in this one. Also; ANGST! Sorry; I somehow deleted my angst-warning!  
**

**

* * *

**_Eight_

It was the evening, and Sherlock was at his computer, typing something. Every now and again, he stole a glance at John who was staring at him, but glancing away as soon as Sherlock looked up at him. Eventually, too distracted by this to continue, he fixed John with a stare and refused to look away until John was forced to speak.

"Sherlock..."

"Yes?"

John hesitated for a while. "Would you like a cup of tea?" He finally asked.

Sherlock sighed. "No." He frowned at John.

"OK." John looked at the coffee table and moved a few of the magazines around for a few moments. When he looked up, Sherlock was still pinning him down, under his gaze.

"What?" He asked.

"What do you want to ask me?" Sherlock asked him.

"What?" John asked.

"You clearly have something on your mind; you've been dancing around it for several days now, but for some reason you don't think you can ask me. It's extremely irritating. Ask me."

John sighed, and looked at Sherlock for a while. Eventually, he seemed to summon his courage. "I want to know if... I need... in my will, I want to know if you're completely comfortable with the idea of being named as Scarlet's legal guardian should something happen to me. And I died."

Sherlock frowned. "Of course." He said. "Obviously. I assumed I already was."

"Yes. That's part of the problem I think. We've assumed. I've assumed that should something happen to me, you'd take care of Scarlet, but I find I'm a bit uncomfortable with that. I'm uncomfortable with the assumption; not with you looking after her." He explained when Sherlock frowned. "It's not a small thing; I need to know that you'd be completely happy with it, and you wouldn't feel that it had been forced upon you."

"What?" Sherlock said. "Seriously? Really John, apart from anything else, who else would she go to? Harry? You'd prefer your alcoholic sister took care of your child than me?"

"Sherlock, don't get upset." John told him. "Of course I want her to stay with you, you're absolutely my first choice, but I need to know if she's your first choice."

"When has she not been?" Sherlock demanded.

"You didn't choose to have a child!" John told him firmly. "I have friends with children and in a lot of ways it makes sense to ask someone who could just slot her in without having to change every aspect of their life!"

Sherlock stared. "But they wouldn't love her the way I do!" He shouted.

"No, Sherlock, they wouldn't," John answered, trying not to start shouting too, "and that's why you're absolutely my first choice, but I need to know you've thought about it properly. We're talking about a situation where I wouldn't be around. I wouldn't be able to remind you about homework, or what constitutes a balanced meal, or remove her when you're trying to think and she's rabbiting away at you. You wouldn't be able to drop everything to chase after some random criminal for days on end; you'd have to stop taking stupid risks. It would be a massive change for you, and I don't want to force that onto you. I need to know that you'd be OK with doing all of that."

Sherlock blinked for a while and pouted. Suddenly he leapt up and grabbed his coat from the hook.

"Where are you going?" John asked him.

"Out." Sherlock snapped. "I need some air."

John leapt up and followed him down the stairs. "What? Sherlock wait!" he said, but Sherlock ignored him. "Don't be insulted! All I'm saying is that it's a lot to give up, and you shouldn't have to without even being given the chance to say no!"

Sherlock turned round to face him. John found himself shrinking away from the hurt and anger on Sherlock's face. "There is nothing, absolutely nothing in the world I wouldn't give up if she needed me to." He snarled through his teeth. "And frankly, John, I'm astounded that you even have to question that." He turned on his heel and shut the door firmly behind him.

John sighed, and walked slowly back upstairs.

It was less than an hour later that John heard the front door shut followed by Sherlock's even and calm footsteps coming up the stairs. He found himself slightly nervous that he'd opened a massive gulf between them and he hoped that he'd be able to find away to close it again. Sherlock came in and sat down on the sofa with a sigh.

"Actually, I would like a cup of tea. Thank you." Sherlock said.

John blinked for a moment as the gulf instantly vanished. "OK." He said, and went into the kitchen to put the kettle on.

While he waited for the water to boil, he thought about Sherlock and Scarlet. It was true that there were some occasions where Sherlock had responded to her in a way John wouldn't have. In fact there had been many, many occasions like that. But every single time, Sherlock had acted completely and utterly out of love. Love and a twisted sense of logic. He knew at that moment that there really was no other person in the world he could trust with Scarlet's up-bringing. There would be no step-mothers, no foster carers, no friends with their own children where Scarlet would be cared for kindly, but as a second thought. Sherlock might not do things his way, but John suddenly realised that he was just as likely to screw Scarlet's life up as Sherlock was. And he'd rather leave her with someone who might accidently offer her liquidised eyeballs to spread on her toast than with someone who didn't love her.

He looked across at the list, now three pages long, stuck to the fridge. He felt mildly nauseated with himself for having ever started it. Sherlock would be fine.

He took the teas into the lounge and handed one over.

"Thank you." Sherlock said.

"You're welcome." John returned.

Sherlock looked at him. "You are right." He told him. "It would be a lot to give up."

"Well, I've decided you have no choice now." John told him. "It has to be you."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Did you just give in to a tantrum?" he asked with a smile. "Because that's on The List."

"No, no, I didn't." John told him. "It's just I've thought about it and there really is no-one else."

"Really?" Sherlock asked. "What about Mike? He's already got five; he'd probably not even notice another one."

John smiled and sat down on the coffee table. "Well, maybe I'm not happy with the idea of her going un-noticed."

"Yes; you're right. That wouldn't be right for her at all." Sherlock nodded slowly. "Lestrade then. He's sensible, and he and Catherine haven't got any children."

"Yes, and it's possible that that's deliberate. I don't want her going to someone who's never wanted children. Which, incidentally, is why I needed to ask you, rather than just assume."

"Molly? She only has one."

"There's another on the way, and she needs the oportunity to get to know her own children. I'm sure she'd love Scarlet and she's a brilliant Mum, but I'd feel guilty."

"You'd be dead." Sherlock pointed out.

John just smiled at him. "No, it has to be you. No one else comes close to being good enough."

"Well I'm a rubbish choice." Sherlock said. "Not because of the not wanting children thing, because she doesn't count as 'children', she's Scarlet and I want her but not any others. But you're right; it's a lot to give up and while I know for sure I'd want to, I'm a bit concerned that I wouldn't be able to. I'd mess up somehow and I wouldn't want her to suffer in some way because I'd messed up."

"Well I might mess up." John reminded him. "There are lots of parents who do, even if they're acting with the best intentions."

"Don't be silly; you wouldn't mess up."

"Well, maybe neither would you." John said.

"I mess up every single day." Sherlock told him. "It's OK, because you're around to fix it again."

"Sherlock; it has to be you. There isn't anyone else that I'd want her with."

Sherlock looked at him. "Well, you need to work harder at The List then."

"You don't need The List." John told him.

"I do need The List." Sherlock responded.

"So is that settled?" John asked. "I'll speak to my solicitor in the morning, and I'll sort it all out formally."

"Yes." Sherlock told him. "But I have to admit my preference is that you just don't die."

"Well, yes." John said. He smiled at him.

Sherlock wasn't entirely sure what it was that he'd seen. Perhaps it was the way that John didn't quite meet his eyes, but instead looked at a spot about a centimetre to the left of them. Maybe it was the way his second breath was slightly deeper, to make up for the previous slightly shorter one. Maybe it was because when he smiled his crows-feet didn't deepen; he was smiling with his mouth but not his eyes. It was gone in a second, whatever it was, and Sherlock might even have been persuaded that he'd imagined it if it wasn't for the fact that the blood in his veins suddenly felt like ice and he found he didn't want to breathe for a moment.

"John? What is it? What happened?" He asked with a quiet urgency.

"What? Nothing! Everything's fine." John answered.

It was screamingly obvious to Sherlock that this was a lie. He tried to squash his concern.

"No." He told John. "Everything's not fine. If everything was fine you wouldn't need to find a successor for yourself; you'd have been fine with the assumption that I'd take care of her in the unlikely event that something happened to you. You've always been happy with that before. But you're not happy with it now; you suddenly need to be sure, and not just sure but you need to know tonight. Something happened... two days ago which made you concerned about your future and whatever it is that you're worried about is going to happen tomorrow."

"Don't do that." John said, blankly.

"Don't do what?"

"Analyse me. It's not fair."

"Don't lie to me then." Sherlock responded.

John looked straight at his eyes; not a centimetre to the left. "I have a tumour the size of a tennis ball in the adductor magnus muscle in my left thigh." He said. "They're going to remove it tomorrow." He paused for a moment. "Would you be OK to take care of Scarlet for a few days?" he asked with a slight, bloodless smile.

"Is it cancerous?" Sherlock asked him, seeming to be completely devoid of emotion.

"They don't know. They won't know until it's removed and biopsied. They hope to get it all away cleanly, but there might be further operations and other treatment necessary further down the line." John sucked in his lips for a moment, waiting for Sherlock to respond.

"Why did they wait three days?" Sherlock demanded. He appeared to be slowly getting angry again. "Why wasn't it removed immediately?"

"I needed a few days, Sherlock." John told him steadily. "Look, there's a very good chance that it will be benign and I'll be back up and running in a few weeks time."

"What do you define as 'a very good chance'?" Sherlock instantly asked. "Give me numbers."

John sighed. "Well it's hard to say precisely..."

"Try." Sherlock demanded. "Tell me what they told you."

"They said about thirty percent chance that there's no cancer at all."

"Fuck." Sherlock said taking a deep breath and slowly breathing out again.

John shuffled slightly and instantly Sherlock was staring at him, narrowing his eyes. He blushed and looked away. "You're analysing me again." He said.

"You're lying to me again." Sherlock countered. "You're trying to soften this for me, aren't you? So the figure you gave is slightly inflated; not too much though, you were hoping I wouldn't notice so you didn't make it a clear 'It'll be fine' figure, but the number must be low enough that it needs softening. What is it? About ten percent? Is it about a ten or maybe fifteen percent chance that it's benign and you'll be absolutely fine?"

"Sherlock..." John whispered.

"Fuck." Sherlock said again. He closed his eyes for a moment. "So the limp... I thought you were just bored."

"No, on this occasion it's not psychosomatic." John told him.

"Right." Sherlock said softly. He swallowed. "John, of course I can take care of Scarlet. Of course. For as long as you need me to."

"Thank you." John said quietly.

"You're welcome." Sherlock answered.

* * *

**And I'm leaving it there... There will of course be another chapter for this one, and I'll start writing it now, but it might not be up until tomorrow. Then I'll have to write something funny; it's like a law with me. I don't **_**hate**_** writing angst, but it does feel slightly alien to me.**

**Thank you so, so much for all the reviews that these have been getting. I can't tell you how excited it makes me when people respond.**

**LP**


	42. Ten Percent

**Ten Percent.**

**A snippet of conversation from the Pippin household last night:**

**LP: I think I might have done something really bad.**

**MrPip: Really? What have you done?**

**LP: I may have accidentally, sort of, slightly given John cancer. I've certainly given him a cancer scare.**

**MrPip: Yes. It doesn't **_**sound**_** like the sort of thing you'd do...**

**I had this almost complete and ready for publication last night, but I read it back and it was awful. Not necessarily 'bad', but far too dark for Scarlet. She's not a dark person; certainly not at eight, so I deleted it and I've had another bash now. So, sorry to keep you all in suspense (sort of; you all know he's not actually going to die), but I felt it was worth it for a better chapter.**

**Thank you, very much for reviewing, and welcome to the new people who were first-time reviewers at yesterday! **

**

* * *

**_Eight._

Sherlock sat on the plastic chairs in the small waiting room on the ward. He stared at the two vending machines; one for drinks which seemed only capable of dispensing tepid, mud coloured water that tasted like, well, like tepid, mud coloured water. The other had food, but only chocolate bars were left and Sherlock couldn't face the idea of something so sweet. He told himself that he wasn't hungry anyway.

The door opened. Sherlock glanced up and frowned. His frown turned into a grimace as Mycroft sat down beside him. He didn't otherwise acknowledge his presence.

"Do make sure you're not late for Scarlet." Mycroft said to him.

"I have time. I have half an hour before I have to leave." Sherlock told him.

"Why are you here?" Mycroft asked with a frown. "You've been here for nearly four hours. It makes not the slightest bit of difference to John whether you're here or not right now, so what, precisely, is the point of this vigil?"

"Go away, Mycroft." Sherlock said, crossly. "There's no point explaining; you wouldn't understand."

"Fine." Mycroft said.

"It's nicer to have a familiar face when you wake up from an anaesthetic, than to feel that you're alone." Sherlock said, unable to resist educating his brother. "I've experienced both, so I can say that with certainty."

"But you have to pick up Scarlet." Mycroft reminded him.

"I know." Snapped Sherlock. "I was expecting him to be back an hour ago."

"Has anyone come to give you an update?" Mycroft asked.

"No." Sherlock said quietly.

"But you told them you were partners, I assume, when John was booked in."

"Of course." Sherlock replied quietly. It had seemed simpler; whenever Sherlock had been in hospital John had been able to use his medical credentials to get the feedback he needed. Sherlock didn't have that opportunity, so they simply said he was John's partner and next of kin.

"Well," said Mycroft, "I'm sure there's a good reason for the delay."

"Yes, I'm sure." Sherlock snapped. "Why are you here, Mycroft? Is it just to irritate me?"

"Actually I'm here to offer you help." Mycroft said. Sherlock snorted. "If you want to be here, I can pick up Scarlet for you."

"Don't be ridiculous." Sherlock said. "I'll give it another twenty minutes and then I'll leave."

"If you don't trust me, I can arrange to have someone else pick her up. It wouldn't be hard."

Sherlock turned to look at him. "Really, Mycroft? She knows that her Dad's in hospital, having surgery. You don't think she might find it slightly alarming if a complete stranger turns up to pick her up from school."

"Why?" Mycroft asked with a frown. "I can ask them to show her identification."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "No, Mycroft; she needs me there so I'll pick her up."

"So John..."

"Will have to wake up alone." Sherlock finished for him. "But he'll understand. I'm ninety-five percent certain that this is the right thing to do." He stood up to leave.

"I'll wait." Mycroft said. He watched as Sherlock froze, with his hand on the door handle. "I'll call you when he's back from surgery and I'll tell him where you are. He'll have a familiar face around when he wakes up."

Sherlock frowned. "Why?"

Mycroft shrugged. "I don't know." He replied. "It seems like a nice thing to do. Would you prefer I didn't?"

"No, that's... fine." Sherlock said. "Thank you." He left, still frowning.

oOo

Sherlock stood in the playground, slightly apart from the other parents who were picking up their children. Most of them he could vaguely recognise from other pick-ups and most of them smiled at him in a friendly fashion, but he found he had no energy for banal small-talk.

Eventually Scarlet's teacher emerged, and he could vaguely see Scarlet herself, amongst a gaggle of girls at the back of the line. He waited and eventually she registered his presence. Her face lit up and she skipped across the playground to him.

"Is Dad OK?" was her first question.

"Yes, he's fine." Sherlock responded, pretty much automatically.

Sherlock wondered when he'd started lying to her as a matter of course, but quickly justified it to himself as he had no current evidence to suggest that John was _not_ fine. He'd noticed that John's usual way was to tell her the best case scenario and slowly manage her expectations if the situation changed. This was certainly what had happened this morning; Scarlet had been given details of John's operation only as far as absolute certainties were concerned. Questions that she'd asked had been answered, but there had been no indication from anyone that there might be anything more sinister or complicated to worry about.

Sherlock found he wasn't sure about this. He didn't like the thought of Scarlet having to face the potential cancer with no prior warning. But she was John's daughter, and despite John's assertions that Sherlock wouldn't break her in some way if he took on a parental role, he found he couldn't overrule John. He also found that despite his sense that she ought to be told, he didn't want to tell her. Scarlet was perfect; joyous and completely oblivious and John seemed so eager to keep her that way. Sherlock wondered, briefly, if this eternal optimism was there because John kept her so shielded from the harsher side of the world, or whether John shielded her because Scarlet was Scarlet and harshness had no place in the same universe as her.

She had darted off to catch up to her friends and he followed her home, thinking about all of this. He tried hard to take a leaf out of Scarlet's book and to not wonder why John's surgery had taken so long. Unfortunately, the only other thought he could manage was about John and the hideous offensiveness of the ten percent. He found it very difficult not to constantly recall on the terrified look on John's face while he told him about that awful ten percent.

He was so taken up by all of these thoughts that he staggered slightly when Scarlet turned round to him with a huge smile that seemed completely incongruous. They'd reached Baker Street with him barely noticing.

"Are you all right, Sherlock?" Scarlet asked him. There was the trace of a frown on her face.

"Yes, of course. I'm fine." He told her. He smiled back but she looked sceptical. By the time they'd reached the kitchen, she was back to prattling happily about her day.

She was still talking some half an hour later while Sherlock was serving up dinner, only stopping when Sherlock's phone rang. Mycroft informed him that John was back from surgery, was awake and reasonably alert, and was pleased to know that Sherlock was with Scarlet. Sherlock smiled warmly and thanked him.

"Is Dad all right?" Scarlet asked again as he hung up the phone.

"Yes." Sherlock told her, with a smile. "He's absolutely fine. Now; homework."

They sat and did the homework together, Sherlock helping a little more than he otherwise might, mostly just to speed her along. Afterwards she got out her craft box out and set about making a card for John.

Sherlock suddenly noticed she was talking again, and was halfway through either an anecdote about someone she knew or a fiction about someone she'd made up, but he couldn't quite work out which. She seemed to be mostly talking to the sequins that she was diligently gluing to the card, so Sherlock closed his eyes and let her chatter wash over him for a while.

Sometime later, he was surprised by the sudden sagging of the sofa as Scarlet leapt up beside him.

"Sherlock, are you _very_ worried about Dad?" she asked him.

"No! No, not at all." He told her. He'd answered his own question. It was almost impossible to tell Scarlet the truth for fear of crushing her.

"Your hair's funny." She said.

"Is it?" he said, with a frown.

"Your hair goes funny when you're worried." She told him.

He put his hand to his hair and realised as he did so that his hand had been in his hair most of the day. "I'll brush it." He told her.

"Is Dad very ill?" She asked him.

"No." He said quickly, but he found that he instantly hated himself for it. John wasn't here now, he thought to himself, and he was, and Scarlet was asking a question. "We don't know." He said to Scarlet. "We hope not, but we won't know for sure for a few days, so yes, I'm a little bit worried about him."

Scarlet looked at him for a while, and Sherlock suddenly realised how unpleasant it was to be on the receiving end of such a searching look.

"You shouldn't be worried." She said, finally. "Even if he is really ill, he'll get better. He's been really ill before and got better, and there will be doctors to help him, so he'll be fine."

Sherlock's breath caught, but he fought it and smiled at her. "Yes, yes I'm sure you're right. He's a very strong person, your Dad is."

"Mm. And we can help him too can't we."

"Yes." Sherlock said. "Of course we will."

"Then he'll be fine." She said, simply as if there was no other option in the world.

Sherlock looked at the clock. "It's past your bedtime." He told her, frowning. He hadn't realised he'd actually been asleep.

"Can I stay up late?" She asked him.

"No, it's school tomorrow so it's bedtime now." He got up to hustle her upstairs. She was back to talking about the vegetable garden at school as if there was nothing wrong in the world at all.

oOo

Sherlock woke in the darkness, tense and alert. The wail came again.

"No! Get off me! Go away!" Scarlet was saying, in a sleepy, unfocussed voice. Sherlock got up quickly and went to her room. Suddenly her manner changed and she was worried and awake, calling clearly; "Dad? Dad?"

Sherlock put her lamp on. She was confused and crying. "Are you all right?" he asked her, and then felt a bit silly because she clearly wasn't.

"Dad's not here." She said, shivering. "He's in hospital."

"Yes, but I'm here." Sherlock said, as he pulled her into a hug. As he did so he realised she was damp. "It's OK," he told her, "it's all right; it was just a bad dream."

"I'm wet." She told him.

"I know. It's OK, it was just an accident." He told her. He put her down and fished out a clean set of pyjamas from her dresser.

"Thank you." She said quietly.

"It's OK." He said again, looking at her in a worried fashion. "What did you dream about?" He asked.

"There were loads of cats on my bed." She told him, softly. "They wouldn't get off and they kept sleeping on my face and choking me. Dad was shouting but I couldn't hear him."

"Well I don't think he was shouting at you." Sherlock told her. "It was much more likely that he was shouting at the cats."

She looked very sad. "I couldn't hear him." She said again.

Sherlock noticed that there was a plastic sheet on her bed. He realised that this was probably a fairly regular occurrence that John just dealt with without him knowing. If he'd pushed himself, he'd probably have noticed something and been able to work it out, but he'd had no particular reason to push himself as long as John was here to just deal with things.

"Right, let's change your bed." He said to her. On pulling back the bed-sheet and the plastic sheet he found a second sheet, which appeared to be over a second plastic sheet. He frowned. "Clever." Was all he said. Suddenly the second duvet, always folded with military precision at the end of her bed, made a lot more sense.

He helped her back in and she lay there shivering, looking wide eyed and sad.

"Are you OK?" he asked her.

She nodded, but continued to look sad.

"The cats won't come back." He told her.

She nodded again, but still looked tearful, as if she might cry if there wasn't somebody here.

"Do you want to sleep in my bed?" He asked.

She nodded again. He pulled back the duvet so she could get out and he followed her to his room.

She nestled into his bed and he got in beside her, wondering whether this was the right thing to do. A number of the parenting books suggested no; children should always be encouraged to sleep in their own beds. Some, however, suggested that having a child sleeping anywhere other than your own bed was utterly wrong. He wondered what John would do; he didn't think he'd approve. He clearly had her bed set up so that she could sleep there all night, regardless of any accidents. But John wasn't here, and he was.

"Sherlock?" Scarlet said in a small voice.

"Mmm?"

"Dad will be OK, won't he?" She asked. She sounded worried.

"He'll be fine." Sherlock told her, stroking her hair. "And if he's not fine we'll look after him. Go to sleep now."

In the morning it seemed as though she'd forgotten all about it. She leapt from the bed, bright eyed and smiling and immediately started talking about what she was likely to do at school that day. He gently nudged her towards the shower and went off in search of coffee.

oOo

Sherlock got back to the hospital shortly before 10:00. He was surprised, but very pleased, to find John looking fairly well. He looked slightly pale and tired, but mostly alert, sitting up, and drinking a cup of tea.

"Good morning." Sherlock said, going into the room and sitting down on the visitor's chair next to John's bed.

"Good morning." John returned. "Is Scarlet OK?"

"Yes, of course. She's fine." Sherlock told him. "Are you OK?"

"Yes, fine." John said. "I feel fine." He looked across at Sherlock. "OK, well, it hurts a bit, but it's not too bad at the moment; they're keeping me on a local anaesthetic for the moment; it's uncomfortable, but manageable. And how is Scarlet really?"

"She's fine." Sherlock said again. "She's remarkably resilient isn't she?"

"Yes she is." John agreed. He thought for a moment. "Why? What did you do?"

"Nothing!" Sherlock protested. He met John's eyes. "Though she did end up sleeping in my bed. Sorry."

"Ha!" John said. "You've made a rod for your own back there, Sherlock. She'll assume that's where she'll be every night now."

"No, I'll be firm with her tonight." Sherlock said.

"No you won't."

"No, probably not." He admitted. "But you don't mind?"

"No, why would I mind? She's with you; you have to deal with the consequences. Sherlock it's fine; you don't have to second guess everything you do with her." He watched as Sherlock's face took on a nervous look. "What else?" he asked.

"She asked if you were really ill. She was worried that I was worried."

John's face fell. "Well, you'd probably spent the day messing up your hair." He said. "What did you tell her?" He asked with a sigh.

"I told her we didn't know. Sorry. I couldn't lie to her."

"You need to learn." John said, but fairly good humouredly. He sighed. "Well, she was bound to notice sooner or later."

"Well, let's hope not." Sherlock said quietly. John remained silent for a while, and Sherlock knew that he was also thinking about the vicious ten percent and thinking about how unlikely it would be to hit such a small target. "Your bed-making system is ingenious by the way." He said.

John looked at him and smiled. "She wet the bed then." He said. "Sorry; she's almost outgrown it."

"It's fine." Sherlock said. "Oh, and she sent you a card." He handed it over.

John smiled as he read it. "Apparently you're looking after her very well, and you had pasta for dinner."

"I didn't realise she'd written in it." Sherlock said. "I think she wants to see you. She doesn't seem worried on the outside; she was certainly laughing with her friends while going into school, but I think somewhere on the inside she's worried and it would be good if she could see you."

"Bring her after school." John said. He moved up slightly in the bed, then winced and went slightly pale.

"What is it? Are you OK?" Sherlock asked.

"I'm fine." John said. A few minutes later and he lay back again looking calmer, but still pale. "I'm fine." He repeated, looking at Sherlock's anxious face.

"OK." Said Sherlock, clearly not believing him. A nurse appeared round the doorway. "I think he's in pain." Sherlock told him quickly.

"Sherlock!" John snapped. "I'm fine."

"Well, I need to check the wound is draining properly anyway." The nurse said.

"OK." Said John. He looked pointedly at Sherlock who seemed oblivious. "Er, Sherlock...?"

"What?" He noted the look on John's face. "What? You want me to leave? I'm fairly sure I'll have seen worse wounds than yours." He told him.

"Just go away." John told him with a smile. Sherlock obeyed.

Sherlock stayed with John most of the day, entertaining and annoying him in equal measure. At 3:00 he left to pick up Scarlet from school, satisfied the John was easily well enough to have a young visitor.

oOo

An hour later Sherlock walked a very excited Scarlet towards John's room. She'd talked incessantly during the cab ride to the hospital. He finally managed to cut her off.

"Look, Scarlet, your Dad's fine, as you know, but he might be a bit tired still. Do you think you can remember to stay calm?"

"Of course I can, Sherlock." She told him, somewhat dismissively.

"And you need to be gentle; his leg is very painful."

"I _know_, Sherlock!" she told him.

"OK." He said. He opened John's door and briefly froze in panic. John was crying.

"What is it? What's happened?" Sherlock asked, alarmed.

John shook his head and smiled. "No, it's fine, Sherlock. Doctor Sterling has just been, and I'm fine. Absolutely fine; no cancer."

For a moment Sherlock thought that John must be lying; he was clearly crying and he could see Scarlet in the room, so probably wanted to protect her. But he looked genuine. His grin was real, and there was relief oozing out of every pore. Sherlock noted he was fighting tears himself, so he supposed it was _possible_.

He stood still as Scarlet dashed past him to John. "You're fine?" She asked.

"Yes, I'm fine." He confirmed.

"You're not really ill after all?"

"No!" He told her with a smile. He couldn't move close enough to hug her properly so he ended up ruffling her hair, and kissing her head. He looked up at Sherlock who was still completely still. "Sherlock? Are you OK?"

"Yes, I'm fine." Sherlock said. He realised he hadn't breathed for a while so rectified that. It made him dizzy and he staggered backwards to lean against the wall. "No cancer?" he clarified.

"No cancer." John told him. "I hit the ten percent." He grinned, widely.

"Right." Sherlock said softly. "Good."

John suddenly giggled at him. "Ten percent." He said.

Sherlock laughed and picked up Scarlet into a hug. "Your Dad is brilliant!" he told her, enthusiastically. "Brilliant!" He put her down and walked up close to John's bed to look at him properly.

"Ten percent." Sherlock said.

"Ten percent." John repeated, softly.

"Well, of course I always knew you'd be fine." Sherlock said, with a grin.

"No you didn't." John countered.

"No, really; you always were so melodramatic. Always looking for attention..."

John laughed.

* * *

**Sorry that this one is so long; I wanted to get the whole results part into this chapter. There's likely to be one follow on though; the idea of Sherlock as a single dad for a while is just too good to pass up.**


	43. Morphine

**Morphine  
**

**

* * *

**_Eight_

"A thought has occurred to me." John said.

Sherlock had thought he was asleep. "Really? Well, I do hope it isn't too lonely." He said, not looking up from his book.

"No! No... No." John said.

Sherlock smiled at him. John had expressed concern about morphine, saying it made him nauseous and fuzzy headed. Sherlock had watched with difficulty as John had struggled and sweated for several hours before he'd given in and increased his dose. Since then, he'd simply sat reading as John mostly dozed and babbled. He'd decided he probably wouldn't bring Scarlet in today. He was, however, enjoying the slightly unwound John. He hadn't seen him this relaxed since before Scarlet was born.

"What was I saying?" John suddenly asked.

"You were saying 'no'." Sherlock told him.

"Why? Were you annoying me again?"

"No, I'd never do such a thing." He still hadn't looked up from his book.

"You would." John said. There was a pause. "Sherlock; I've had a thought." He said.

"And what's that?" Sherlock said, smiling again, but finally looking up at John.

"I want you to know, that should I be dying, and I scratch out Scarlet's name with my fingernails, it would just be because I'd be thinking about Scarlet. It wouldn't be a password to anything. I just thought you should know."

"It is your password." Sherlock pointed out. "To everything."

"Well, yes, _obviously._" John told him. "But that wouldn't be why."

"OK, well I'll bear that in mind." Sherlock told him. "Thank you."

"What would you write?" John asked him.

Sherlock considered this. "Well in the same circumstances, I like to think I'd manage 'It was the cabbie', followed by his badge number."

"Yeah, well you always was... were... are a smart-Alec bastard." John slurred. After a moment he spoke softly. "I think I'd kill my victims in rooms with carpet. That'd scupper them."

Sherlock could barely suppress his laugh. A few moments later, John started snoring again and Sherlock went back to his book.

* * *

**Sorry; a very short one, but I'm uninspired today.**


	44. It's primary school stuff

**It's _primary school_ stuff.  
**

_Eight_

"Well that's a ridiculous question!" Sherlock said crossly. "'Why is a year twelve months long?'" he re-read from Scarlet's homework sheet. "Because it _is_, a year is twelve months, it hasn't got a particular motive; it doesn't particularly like the number twelve, it's not even sentient. To be honest, Scarlet, I suspect that it's not the year's choice at all but some arbitrary figure imposed on it by people."

Scarlet waited patiently for him to finish his rant. "So what should I write?" she asked him.

"Write that it's a poorly explained and badly worded question." He snapped. "No, don't." He said to her as she started to do so.

Sherlock had to admit he was struggling. Not just with the homework, but with Scarlet in general. It turned out that John's preoccupation with keeping her in routine wasn't, as he'd thought, a kick back to John's time in the military and his general preference for order. It was, in fact, because Scarlet herself started falling apart quite quickly if she wasn't kept in at least a vague routine. On Tuesday, she'd been up ridiculously late, partly celebrating, but partly because Sherlock hadn't sorted out any food, so on returning from the hospital they'd had to wait for a take-away to be delivered. And Scarlet hungry was almost as difficult to deal with as Scarlet tired. The following day her teacher had told him she'd fallen asleep during numeracy.

They'd failed to do any homework during the week, so all of it needed doing at the weekend. He was painfully conscious that not only had Scarlet not eaten a single vegetable this week, but she hadn't even been offered one. She had reverted to the tantrums he hadn't seen for several years. And he'd reverted to giving in to them, and for some reason he couldn't grasp, this seemed to make her behaviour worse.

"She's missing her Dad, that's all." Mrs Hudson had told him when he'd popped downstairs to off load at her. "Poor dear." She'd added. Sherlock had felt hopelessly guilty, which in turn had made him angry. She'd then reminded him the Scarlet needed to eat healthily, and offered again to have meals ready for them but he'd again insisted that he could manage. She'd given him a fruitcake anyhow.

Scarlet did miss her Dad; it was abundantly clear to Sherlock that he wasn't close to being a substitute for him and he knew Scarlet's behaviour was reflecting that. Scarlet had asked to see John every day this week and Sherlock had felt horribly guilty about continually telling her 'no'. Eventually he'd distracted her with a promise that they'd visit him on Saturday. When she'd woken him at 6:00 her first words had been "We're going to see Dad today!" He wasn't sure how long he'd be able to distract her before he'd have to take her in.

His other problem, and the reason that Scarlet hadn't been at the hospital more regularly, was John. The initial relief and adrenalin had left him, leaving behind an exhausted and shocked man. In addition to this, he was clearly in severe pain. John on morphine stopped being funny quite quickly as it made him hopelessly confused and very sick, and this made him short tempered and snappish. Without it, the pain was debilitating and that made him short tempered too. While it was clear he missed Scarlet as much as she missed him, it hadn't seemed appropriate for her to visit and see him like that, and the thought of her inadvertently making John feel worse was horrible.

"What shall I write?" Scarlet asked again, bringing him back to the present.

"I don't know." Sherlock said. "Thinking about it, they're probably asking why people designated the time-span of twelve months to constitute a year."

"OK." She said. "Why did they?"

"I don't know." He told her. He thought about this. "Let's ask your Dad. I need to call him to see how he is anyway."

"Can I talk to him?" She instantly asked.

"OK."

John answered sounding bleary and unfocused. Sherlock's heart sank. "Are you OK?" he asked.

"Yes, I'm fine, Sherlock. I just woke up, that's all."

"Oh. Sorry. We've been awake for hours." Sherlock told him.

John snorted. "I bet you're both still in pyjamas though."

"I bet you are too." Sherlock replied, relieved that he was in a good mood. "Do you think you'll be well enough for visitors in a bit?"

"Yes." John replied instantly. "Yes please, please bring her in."

Sherlock smiled. "You'll need to give us a couple of hours; we have homework to do, but we'll come afterwards."

He handed the phone over to Scarlet who was wriggling next to him and went to make more coffee while she chatted. He could hear her telling John that Sherlock let her have chips every single day. By the time he got back she was giving him a blow by blow account of her entire week, deftly missing out the part where she slapped her teacher in a fit of anger and Sherlock had had to wait for her while she sat in detention. He gently removed the phone from her.

"Are you still there?" He asked John.

"Yes, I was listening!" he told him.

"Well you'll hear it all again when she visits you." Sherlock pointed out. "We have a question; why is a year twelve months long?"

"Because that's how long it takes for the Earth to go round the sun." John responded.

"Really?" Sherlock asked with a frown. "It takes as long as that?"

"Yes. How long did you think it takes?"

"I don't know." Sherlock replied. "I haven't given it much thought. It seems a bit slow; that's all."

"It takes twelve months for the Earth to go round the sun, and twenty four hours for the Earth to rotate once on its axis, which makes a day." John informed him, patiently.

"Huh." Sherlock said, clearly taking that in. "That's the answer to the next question." He visualised this for a moment. "That must be why it gets dark at night." He told John. He could almost hear him rolling his eyes down the phone.

"Well done, Sherlock. You know, you could probably have found this out on Wikipedia. Right; I've got to go." He suddenly sounded tired.

"Are you OK?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes, I'm fine!" John snapped. "I just... need to go. Bring her soon. Please." He hung up.

He helped Scarlet with the spelling as she wrote down the answers to the first two questions. He then groaned as he heard the front door close and Lestrade's footsteps coming up the stairs.

"I told you I wasn't available!" he said crossly, as soon as the man appeared.

Lestrade frowned. "What, really?"

"Yes, really!" Sherlock snapped. "I can't help, I don't care what it is, you'll have to do it yourself."

"You're not just being a c..." He stopped as his eyes fell upon Scarlet, looking at him and blinking with curiosity. "A... prat?" He finished.

"No, I'm not being a prat; I can't help, I've got Scarlet at the moment." Sherlock told him.

"Why? Can't you get a babysitter? Where's John?"

"John's in hospital and I _am_ the babysitter." Sherlock told him crossly.

"John's in hospital?" Lestrade asked. "Why? What's happened?"

Sherlock sighed. "Scarlet, how about you do this bit, look; she wants a picture of the Earth going round the sun. You can do that bit by yourself." He stood up again and went into the kitchen, and Lestrade followed him.

"What happened to John?" Lestrade asked him quietly.

"Nothing happened; he had to have a tumour removed from his leg." He noted the horrified look on Lestrade's face. "No he's fine." He told him. "We were worried for a while but it's turned out there is no cancer."

Lestrade breathed out. "Thank God for that." He said. "When did all this happen? How long has he been in?"

"The operation was on Monday."

"Monday?" Lestrade echoed. "He's been in hospital since Monday and you didn't tell me until today?"

"No!" Said Sherlock with a frown. "It's medical, not criminal; why would I tell you?"

"Er, because I'm your _friend_!" Lestrade told him. "Because I could help you deal with it all."

"Help me how?" Sherlock asked. "It's not criminal; what exactly would you do?"

"I don't know!" Lestrade snapped. "Take a turn to visit John so you could have a break... bring meals round, that sort of thing."

"I don't want a break." Sherlock told him. "And why does everyone keep assuming that I can't cook?"

"Because you can't!" Lestrade reminded him.

"We're doing fine." Sherlock snapped crossly. "I'm managing perfectly well!"

"Yes, I know you can manage perfectly well." Lestrade told him soothingly. "The point is, you shouldn't have to manage alone. Not when there are people willing to help you. Wouldn't you want to help me if Catherine was in hospital?"

"No." Sherlock replied.

"No, well , obviously you wouldn't. John would though."

"Oh yeah, John wants to help everyone." Sherlock agreed. "Oh!" He said suddenly in realisation. "Ohhh; you feel about me the way I feel about John."

Lestrade stepped back and frowned. "I'm really not sure that I do." He said, slowly.

Sherlock tutted and rolled his eyes. "It is the same." He assured Lestrade. "When Mary died, John managed fine but I wanted to help anyway; not because I could do better but because he might find it easier with help."

"Oh." Lestrade answered. "Then, yes, it's exactly the same as that. People like to help their friends out, Sherlock. Welcome to the human race."

"There's no need to be sarcastic." Sherlock snapped.

"Oh I think there is." Lestrade answered. "So you'll let me know if there's anything to do to help?"

"Yes." Sherlock told him. "Oh, actually there is something; why does it get colder in the Winter? Scarlet's homework." He explained when Lestrade frowned.

"Oh. The Earth tilts." Lestrade told him.

"It does what?"

"It tilts, so the Northern hemisphere is ever so slightly further away from the sun in the Winter, but ever so slightly closer to it in the Summer."

Sherlock frowned. "So you're telling me that the Earth is constantly revolving around the sun, while also rotating on its own axis, and at the same time tilting from side to side?"

"Yes." Lestrade told him.

"That's insane!" Sherlock said. "How are we not being catapulted off it constantly?"

"Well, because of gravity." Lestrade answered calmly.

"Gravity?" Sherlock echoed.

"Yes, Sherlock, you have heard of gravity. You must have."

"Yes, of course I've heard of gravity!" Sherlock said. "I just haven't looked into how it works, that's all."

"Well, the core of the Earth is a massive magnet..." Lestrade started. "And there's some other stuff involved too, but I don't remember what. I tell you want though, I do like the image of the Earth suddenly stopping, completely still, and all the people on the Earth being flung into outer space because of the change in motion."

Sherlock studied him for a moment. "You're a very peculiar man." He said, finally.

"Yes, absolutely," Lestrade agreed, "of the two people in this room, _I'm_ the peculiar one. Look, take Scarlet to the Science museum and ask someone who works there lots of annoying yet fundamentally basic questions. It'll do you some good."

"OK." Sherlock agreed. "Thank you."

"And you'll tell me if I can do anything to help?"

"I will."

Scarlet appeared around the corner. "Sherlock, I've just spilled your coffee all over the floor." She told him.

"I'll see you later." Lestrade said with a smile, before running back down the stairs.

Sherlock grabbed a tea-towel and went back to work.


	45. Heroes

**Heroes.**

**This one came up in a prompt from Mam'zelle Combeferre yesterday.**

**What if a young Scarlet started asking her dad questions about the war? I mean naturally she would be curious.**

**Apologies in advance; it's another vaguely political one. Again; character views are not necessarily my views. Maybe.  
**

**

* * *

**_Eleven._

"Sherlock? Are you busy?" Scarlet asked.

Sherlock was sat in the kitchen, looking through his microscope. He bit back a scathing reply; sarcasm tended not to work on Scarlet. Besides, as John had told him many, many times, it was actually quite hard for her to tell whether he was busy or not as his level of energy in either state was quite variable.

"A little bit busy." He told her. "Why; what do you need?"

"Help with homework." She told him.

"Oh, no; I'm very busy then. Homework is something for your Dad to help you with. I'll grammar check it afterwards though."

"Dad can't help me with this one." She told him.

He sat back and sighed. "Fine; what is it then?"

"I have to write an essay about my hero."

"Oh!" Sherlock said, surprised but very pleased. "Oh, well in that case I have time. Loads of time."

"Good. Because Dad doesn't like talking about himself." She said.

Sherlock's face fell. "Your Dad. Oh. Actually I am quite busy after all." He said and went back to his microscope.

"But Sherlock! You just said…"

"Is this because he was in the Army? Because I could have been in the Army too you know, but I was too clever to join!"

"Dad was in the Army?" Scarlet asked. "When?"

Sherlock looked up again. It hadn't occurred to him that she didn't know, and it occurred to him now, like a half-brick to the head, that if she didn't know there was probably a reason for that.

"Er, no; forget I said anything." He said. "I was thinking about someone else."

She eyed him suspiciously. "He is a doctor though." She said. "He saves people's lives."

"_I_ save people's lives too!" Sherlock told her. "I just do it in a different way!"

"But you're a Detective." She said, blankly. "People hire you to find out about other people."

"No, I'm not a Private Detective; I'm a Consulting Detective." He told her. "There's a difference."

"No, but when we had Careers Day at school, I told Miss King and she said there was no such thing! She said you meant Private Detective." Scarlet informed him. "She wasn't impressed." She added.

"Well, maybe I'm not looking to impress Miss King at school." Sherlock snapped. "And she's wrong. I _am_ a Consulting Detective."

"I think you made that up." Scarlet told him, her eyes full of judgement.

"No! No I didn't 'make it up'. I _invented_ it. There's a difference." He told her.

She looked at him, scathingly. "Are you going to help with my homework or not?" she asked.

"No." He said, sulkily.

She threw her workbook down on the over-crowded table and sat down heavily with a pout.

He looked at her and wondered where the little girl who used to idolise him had gone. He wondered if she'd be different with him now if John had allowed him to give her the puppy. He decided yes; he definitely blamed John for this. He went back to his microscope.

oOo

They were still sat ignoring each other when John came in from work.

"What's happened here?" He asked.

"Nothing." Sherlock replied, to which John rolled his eyes.

"Sherlock won't help with my homework." Scarlet said.

"Tattletale." Sherlock muttered, mostly to himself. He did his best not to notice the look on John's face.

"Well, maybe you should have a try at doing your homework by yourself." John said to Scarlet. "I'll have a look in a bit to check you're on the right track."

"Dad; were you in the Army?" She asked. "Sherlock said you were, but then he said you wasn't. I think he's lying."

John's eyes were on Sherlock instantly. Sherlock knew this but didn't look away from his microscope.

"Yes." John told Scarlet. "Yes, a long time ago I was in the Army. Yes."

"Were you in the war?" She asked.

"I was in _a_ war; yes. Two wars in fact; first I was in a country called Iraq and then I was in a country called Afghanistan."

"Did you ever kill anyone?" She asked him.

"No." John told her.

Sherlock jerked suddenly and accidentally swept a box of glass slides to the floor, which then shattered everywhere.

"Sorry!" he said. "Sorry; John, could you pass me the dust-pan?"

As John did so he gave him an angry look which Sherlock did his best to ignore.

"How did you not kill anyone if you were in the Army. I thought soldiers had to." Scarlet asked.

"Yes but I'm a doctor too, remember. I don't kill people; I put people back together."

"But…"

"Look, Scarlet," John interrupted her; "I don't want to talk about it right now. It was a long time ago. It doesn't matter any more; I have a different life now." He sighed. "Look, why don't you go and do your homework in your room."

"But I need help!"

"No you don't!" He said crossly. "Just go and do it would you please? And perhaps you could tidy your room while you're up there too. It's a disgrace!"

Sherlock waited until she'd disappeared upstairs. "It's hardly her fault." He pointed out.

"I know it's not." John said. "It's yours. Why on Earth did you have to go telling her that?"

"I thought she knew." Sherlock said.

"Well, you were wrong." John told him.

"Why are you ashamed of it?" Sherlock asked. "It's not something you should be ashamed of; it's not like you're a pacifist."

"I'm not ashamed." John said quickly.

"Well you sound ashamed." Sherlock told him. "You sound cross and ashamed."

"I am cross! I'm just not ashamed."

"OK then; why are you cross?"

"Because I _am_. Because it's _Scarlet _and I'd prefer she continue with the belief that wars are bad and killing people is wrong but it's OK because these things don't really exist in her world anyway. I quite like that war isn't a reality for her; it's distant, it's abstract. I don't like the idea of it suddenly being something where it's real, and her Dad was there, and yes, I killed people and yes they might have been someone's Dad, and they were definitely somebody's kid, and yes it was frightening, and yes I got shot!" He stopped suddenly and looked up at Scarlet where she was stood in the kitchen doorway.

"I forgot my book." She said, picking up the note-pad. She turned round and ran back upstairs.

"Oh, fantastic!" John said. He went into the lounge and sitting down on the sofa in a huff. He stared at the fireplace for a while.

Sherlock appeared and leaned against the kitchen divide, studying him. "Why did you join the Army?" he asked.

"Oh don't you start." John muttered.

"No, I mean it; why did you?" Sherlock pressed him. "You're a doctor, you have high morals, you believe life is sacred; why would you put yourself in a position where you were likely to be forced to take a life? It's not like your family has a strong military background."

John sighed and thought about this. "My parents had died, my Sister wasn't interested, and the Army would help pay for accommodation and Medical School. So I joined."

"But you stayed." Sherlock pointed out. "You stayed for, what, it must have been over ten years."

"Yes. So? Perhaps I felt grateful for their input into my career." He said.

"Ten years though. Ten years of being ordered about and shot at. That's a lot of gratitude" Sherlock pointed out.

John sat silently with his own thoughts for a while.

"Why do you pretend you're not a patriot when I know full well that you are?" Sherlock asked him, quietly. "Why do you think that side of yourself needs hiding?"

"I don't." John said. "It's complicated."

Sherlock stood there, waiting patiently.

John sighed. "Look; it's complicated. Yes, I do believe in queen and country and I know you think it's quaint and silly, but I honestly don't care what you think about it. But sometimes, particularly when I when I was over there, in the thick of it, it was hard to keep in mind that I was there for Britain. Sometimes, occasionally, it felt like Britain, or some of the people in Britain, didn't give a rats arse about me or whether I was there or not. Add to that the whole question about whether we actually were there for Britain, or whether we were really there for America... well, when I sat down and thought about it, which I'll admit wasn't that often, it wasn't always straight forward to feel patriotic."

"So why did you stay?" Sherlock asked again.

"I don't know. Because there wasn't really anywhere else for me to go, maybe? Because there were people there, good, patriotic people who were friends, and often hopelessly young, who needed me there to pick up the pieces when things went wrong... Because I did. Because I was John Watson; Army Doctor. And maybe I have a predisposition to want to save people because they're stupid enough to keep putting themselves in harm's way."

They both thought about this for a while.

"Also," John continued, "I am basically a thrill seeker. Active service was a heck of a lot cheaper than active holidays."

"Yes." Sherlock agreed. "And a lot more thrilling, I would imagine."

John smiled. "Yeah, well I don't really see the point of pretending you're putting yourself in danger. If there are health and safety rules there to protect you, there's not much point. If you're going to nearly die, you ought to _really_ nearly die."

"Well, I for one am glad you got shot." Sherlock told him. "And I'm also glad someone taught you to shoot straight. Both of these things have worked very well for me."

John snorted. Then he sighed. "What the hell am I going to tell Scarlet? I can't leave her up there."

"Well, I'd probably start out by pointing out you didn't go looking for people's Dads to kill." He saw John smile so he decided he'd been forgiven. "Oh, by the way, it turns out you're her hero, and I'm not!"

"Well, yes," John said, "she was bound to notice that I'm much better than you eventually."

"No, I think it's because you wouldn't let me give her the dog."

"Yeah, well, you put it down to whatever you want; we all know that I'm the hero in this house."

Sherlock smiled as John left the room.

John popped back in. "Oh, and it's interesting that you thought I was someone taking orders, and not someone giving them. Interesting, that."

oOo

John opened the door to Scarlet's room. She was lying on her bed drawing a picture with coloured chalk.

"Tidying going well then?" He asked her.

"I was just about to start!" She insisted.

"Scarlet you're getting chalk all over your bed!" He said, frowning at her.

"Did you just come up here to tell me off?" She asked. "Because you could have waited until I came downstairs again!"

"No I didn't, and I won't be spoken to like that either!" he said, crossly. He sighed. "Look, I came up here to apologise for getting cross with you earlier, so I'd appreciate it if you didn't give me a reason to get cross with you now."

She looked up at him. "Sorry." She said, in a slightly sulky fashion.

"I wanted to tell you about being in the Army." He said to her. "Because it wasn't really fair for me to shout at you just because you asked about it. So, do you want to talk about it?"

She looked up at him. "Did you really kill people?" She asked.

He sighed. "Yes. Not often, because I was mostly at the field-hospital, but there were a couple of occasions when it was necessary."

"And the people you killed; were they really someone's Dad?" She asked.

"No, well, I don't know. I don't know who they were but they might have been parents. They were people at any rate, and they believed they were in the right as much as we did."

"Who was right?" She asked.

"I don't know." He said. "That's the honest answer; I don't know. I was there because I was in the Army and when you're in the Army you don't get to choose what wars you fight in."

She nodded. "I suppose someone's got to be in the Army. We have to have one, don't we, because if we didn't then anyone could just take over the whole country."

"Well, yes. I suppose so." John agreed.

"So if you weren't there, someone else would have to be." She said.

"Yes. Someone else is there now, someone who took over from me."

"So it's one of those things where it might not be a very nice job, but someone has to stand up and do it so that everyone else can be a bit safer."

"Yes. That's about the sum of it."

"Well, I'm glad you're not in the Army any more. I'm glad you're here."

"Yes. Me too." He smiled at her. "So; homework and tidying your room."

"I have more questions!" She said.

"More questions can wait." He told her. "Homework. And tidy your room."

He wandered downstairs again.

"So, did you sort it out?" Sherlock asked him.

"Of course I did." John told him. "I am the hero after all."

"So, she's doing her homework and tidying her room then?"

"No."

"And that's why I assumed you didn't have a background in giving orders." Sherlock said, smiling.

"Shut up." John told him with a grin. "I'm still the hero around here." He said quietly.

Sherlock grinned back.

* * *

**This is another one I'm not 100% happy with; probably because once again I can't tell whether these are realistic thoughts for the characters or whether there's too much of 'me' in there. I suspect that in the middle of the night I'll wake up and think "that's what John should have said!", but there we go.**

**I have had several requests for 'First day of school' so that one will be coming. I have also had a request for drunk John, which sounds like something I'd like to play with. Scarlet being arrested has also come up and that one's quite interesting to me too; I'm certainly dwelling on it, but trying to work out what she'd do that would be in character. Scarlet making Sherlock angry has been requested but I might roll that in with the arrest. We haven't seen Teen Scarlet in a while so I'd like to have another bash at that. I also have something in mind about her coming home from University in a panic.**

**So that's what will be coming shortly in an order that is as yet undecided.**


	46. Sex

**Sex**

**I remain severely blocked when it comes to Scarlet. I have four documents, titled and open on my computer and I can only think about half a story for one of them. I have tried all my usual writing positions to no avail. I have re-read and re-read the published story, looking for inspiration. It sucks.**

**Finally I went back to basics, pulled out a trusty bic biro and my notebook to see what would happen, and I came across a half started story from a while back that didn't work when I started it.**

**I think it works now. But warnings for ANGST and DRAMA!**

**

* * *

**_Sixteen._

John bustled busily around the kitchen, while Scarlet, in her school uniform picked at her toast.

"Come on, Scarlet, get a move on; you'll be late for school." John said to her while wrapping his sandwiches up in cling film.

Scarlet sighed. "Actually, Dad, I'm not feeling too well. I thought I might stay home from school today?"

As she'd predicted John immediately veered from his usual morning routine to take her temperature.

"You've no fever." He told her. "What feels wrong?"

"Um, my throat feels quite sore." She told him. "I think I might be getting a cold. Look, it's only exam revision at the moment; I could do that just as well here."

John appeared not to hear her. He pulled his maglite out of his pocket. "Open up." He ordered her. There was nothing for it but to let him check. "I can't see anything." he told her.

"I just don't feel well." She said stubbornly.

Suddenly Sherlock appeared behind her. "Actually, I feel a bit fluey myself." He told John. "I think there's something going round. I'm not working today, I'm happy to stay with Scarlet."

"I don't need babysitting." Scarlet pointed out. "I'm sixteen; not six."

John checked his watch, then looked at both of them. He seemed to resign himself to the situation. "OK, well I can't order you to school any more. Try to work hard though; you've got Maths on Thursday and it's not exactly your strong point."

Scarlet's eyes dropped to the table. "Fine." She said.

Sherlock took over bustling around the kitchen, starting to do the washing up, until he heard John leaving the house for work. As soon as the door closed he turned and dropped into the chair opposite Scarlet.

"So, why don't you want to go to school today?" he asked.

"I do!" She protested. "I'm just not feeling very well; I don't want to go out in the cold and get ill right in the middle of my exams."

Sherlock looked into the lounge where the warm summer sunshine was streaming through the windows.

"Yes." He said. "You're quite right to protect yourself from these inclement conditions."

"Shut up, Sherlock." She snapped at him. "I'm going to study in my room." She got up and stomped up the stairs.

Sherlock watched her go, with a sigh.

oOo

At lunchtime, Sherlock tentatively knocked on Scarlet's bedroom door.

"Come in." Scarlet called.

Sherlock smiled. The new nearly-adult Scarlet with her personal boundaries, her own set of rules, formed via her own opinions and experiences was almost as enchanting as toddler-Scarlet with her Tuddles and her miss-pronunciations and her innocence.

John had noticed this some time ago, and as usual when it came to Scarlet, Sherlock felt he was arriving a little late to the game.

He opened her door. "I made you some lunch." He told her, carrying the tray in. "You ate hardly anything for breakfast and it's not easy to concentrate on an empty stomach."

She snorted. "Really? Coming from you? Mister I'll-Starve-Myself-'till-I-Faint?"

Sherlock smiled back. "Well, generally I find I want better for you than I want for me." He pointed out. He put the tray down on her bed. "Peanut butter sandwiches, apple, banana, orange juice and carrot sticks with humus. I'll make you a cup of tea afterwards. Do you think it's possible that after sixteen years I've finally learned to prepare a balanced meal?"

"Carrot sticks?" she asked.

"Yes. You don't have to eat them, I know you won't eat them, but I have to offer them anyway." He told her. "It's on the list."

She smiled and looked at the tray. "In my personal opinion, there's something missing from that tray."

"There is an individual banoffee tart waiting in the fridge for you to have with your tea." Sherlock told her. "Now come and eat."

She sat down on the bed and picked up a sandwich, and started eating slowly. Sherlock sat down on the other side of the tray. He looked over to her desk where all of her textbooks remained stacked and shut, and an extremely detailed picture of a castle in the mountains covered her notebook page.

"Studying going well then?" He said.

She sighed. "I just can't wait until it's all over. I just want to move on, go to college, and go to university, I'm just sick of that stupid school. Loads of the others are only going in for the exams now; they're doing all their revision at home. Why can't I do that?"

"I don't know." Sherlock told her. "It seems sensible to me. Why don't you discuss it with your Dad? He said this morning he couldn't order you to school."

"I did. He thinks that I'll be more focussed at school. And whatever he says he's still capable of issuing an order."

Sherlock looked over at the castle picture. "He may have a point." He pointed out.

"Oh you should see the pictures I've produced in the library this week." Scarlet told him. "Considering I'm restricted to bic biros, they're really quite impressive. I don't know why I'm bothering anyway; I'm not exactly a straight A student, I'm as bright as I am but no more, I'll get the GCSEs I deserve." She sighed again. "Why couldn't we home-school again anyway?" she asked.

"Well, I used the make-up as an excuse, but realistically, because I'm not a teacher. It turns out it's quite a difficult job. I'm beginning to regret all I put my teachers through."

She smiled at him, and started eating the apple.

"So why don't you want to go to school?" He asked her.

Her face clouded over and she sighed, but she didn't answer.

"What was it? You went out with Darren on Saturday, your Dad said you were happy when you came home, you didn't see anyone on Sunday but got more and more sad, and now you're distressed enough to have written off your entire school life, despite the fact that in general you've been very happy at school."

"God I wish you wouldn't do that." Scarlet said.

"Sorry." Sherlock said. "Sometimes it happens without me meaning it to. I don't mean to pry, Scarlet, but I am worried that there's something wrong."

"There's nothing wrong." She said instantly.

"Scarlet, you do know that I know when you're lying, don't you?"

"Yes." She said. "Usually you don't care though."

"I care right now." He told her. "I think it would be enormously helpful if you just told me what has happened. Then I wouldn't have to annoy you by just working it out."

She sighed. "I think me and Darren have broken up." She told him.

"You think you have?" He said, frowning. "You don't know for sure?"

"No." She said. "It's a bit hard to tell when he's not talking to me. I don't know what I've done wrong."

"Well, what happened?" He pushed her, frowning. "What happened on Saturday?"

"I… we… Look I don't know." She said, lamely. "I thought we were fine. I thought we were better than fine. Then he wrote some stuff about me on Facebook and then all my friends saw and laughed and I tried to call him but he won't answer and he hasn't returned my texts or e-mails. I don't know what I've done wrong!" There were tears in her eyes that she was clearly fighting.

"Scarlet, what happened on Saturday?" Sherlock asked again.

She didn't answer. She blushed though, and the threatened tears started to fall. Suddenly he knew.

"Oh." He said, surprised. "Oh." He said again, softly.

And she knew that he knew and blushed further and shook her head. "Sherlock, please don't tell my Dad. He'd be so ashamed of me."

"No he wouldn't." Sherlock said, and then frowned. "Scarlet, you were… careful, weren't you?"

"What? Yes of course we were."

"Then I can't see that you have anything to be ashamed about. Your Dad wouldn't think so either."

"No, he would. All the time, every time we talk about it he tells me 'wait until you're ready, wait until you're ready', it's pretty much all he ever says about sex. One sodding instruction and I managed to mess that one right up."

"Scarlet," Sherlock said steadily, feeling sick to his stomach, "did Darren force you?"

"No, no it wasn't like that." She said. "It was more… he persuaded me. I wasn't _sure_ but I said OK anyway. It was my choice, Sherlock." She looked at his face. He looked fierce. "It was my choice." She repeated.

"OK." Sherlock finally answered, forcing himself to take her word on it.

"Anyway, he wrote about it in his facebook status, and apparently I wasn't very good, and was a baby about the whole thing."

"He wrote about it on _Facebook_?" Sherlock was incredulous. "What the _hell_? Scarlet… you know I've always said that Darren isn't good enough for you? Well, I was right. If I were you I'd…" He looked over at her. She was red faced, and crying hard. He stopped talking to her and instead grabbed a box of tissues from her desk and handed them over to her.

She took one and shook her head. "I thought he loved me, Sherlock. I thought I loved him." She wiped her eyes. "And I think there might be something wrong with me."

"There's nothing wrong with you. There's nothing wrong with _you,_ Scarlet; there's something very, very wrong with _him_."

She shook her head. "No, I mean physically. I think there's something physically wrong with me." She looked at him frowning at her. "It's supposed to feel nice, Sherlock. I know that much, but it didn't. It was horrible. It hurt!" She burst into tears.

Sherlock reached over and rubbed her back. He was speechless. Eventually he grabbed his own tissue and wiped his eyes.

Scarlet frowned, her own tears stopping. "Why are you crying?" she asked him.

"I don't know." He said, shaking his head. "I think because you are. My brain stops working if you're hurt or upset or in danger. It's really very peculiar."

"Sorry." She said.

"No, no, I'm sorry, Scarlet. Don't worry about me at all. I just wish there was something I could do but this is not even close to my area of expertise. God I wish your Mum hadn't died."

"If she hadn't, I wouldn't be living here with you." Scarlet pointed out.

"Yes, but that would be a small sacrifice really." Sherlock told her.

"Well, wishing won't bring her back." Scarlet said softly. "Believe me, I've tried." She looked up at him quickly. "Oh, not because I don't want you. It's just because sometimes I think I need a Mum."

"It's fine, Scarlet. I think you're right; sometimes you need…" He broke off suddenly, the jumped up, animated and excited. "I know a Mum!" he said. "Right, get dressed and meet my downstairs in ten minutes." He dashed out of the room.

She did as she was told, and followed him willingly into a cab.

"Where are we going?" Scarlet asked him.

"You'll see." Sherlock told her enigmatically.

"If we're going to talk to my Mum's grave, I tried that yesterday and it didn't work." Scarlet told him.

"Oh, this is much better than that." Sherlock told her. "I mean… I don't mean that there's someone better than your Mum." He said, panicked. "Just… sometimes people work better than inanimate objects when you need to talk. Trust me; I've done research on this."

She smiled.

Everything fell into place as they pulled up outside St. Bartholomew's Hospital.

"Molly." She said with a smile.

"Yes. Molly." Sherlock said. He led her down to the mortuary, and barged through the door to where Molly was working.

"Sherlock!" Molly said, looking up with a smile. "Are you working here today? Oh, hello Scarlet."

"Oh God. Corpse." Scarlet said, going pale.

'Don't faint!" Sherlock said, turning her round while Molly ran to get her a chair. "Sorry, Scarlet; I forgot. You're OK, just take some nice deep breaths." He rubbed her back again.

"What's going on?" Molly asked. "Why are you here?"

"We need a favour." Sherlock told her. He looked up at her. "I need a favour, Molly. Scarlet… well, Scarlet can explain, but she really, really needs someone to talk to and I'm not the right person for this."

She looked at him, surprised. "OK. Well, maybe not here. Maybe in my office? Are you OK now Scarlet?"

"Yes, I'm fine." Scarlet said. "But I don't want to take up your time."

"Oh, I have time." Molly told her, leading her away.

"Do you want me to finish your autopsy?" Sherlock called after her.

"No, just stay out of mischief." Molly told him. "And don't steal anything either; I know exactly how many limbs and digits that man has!"

Sherlock waited for her for an hour and a half. He didn't finish Molly's autopsy, but did write the cause of death on a post-it note and stuck it on her notes. He then wrote the cause of death on post-its for several other corpses. He also made some quick phone calls to Mycroft and Lestrade. He was feeling much better by the time he met Scarlet outside Molly's office, and better still when he saw she was smiling.

"All OK?" he asked her.

"Yes, I think so." She said. "Turns out people make silly decisions all the time. And we think I'm probably fine, physically too. And we're agreed that Darren's a dick, and I can do better. Thank you, Sherlock."

"I didn't really do anything." He pointed out.

"You remembered Molly." She told him. "And you helped. Really. I suppose I have to talk to Dad don't I?"

"I don't see why, particularly." Sherlock answered. "You're growing up, Scarlet. It's not a requirement that you fill your parents in on every single aspect of your life. If you think talking to your Dad will help, then do so, if not, then don't."

She thought about this. "While it's a nice idea in principle, he'll probably want to know why I've done sod-all revision though."

"Oh he probably won't even notice." Sherlock told her. "And they're only GCSE's. Ten years from now they'll be completely irrelevant."

She frowned. "That's not what Dad says." She pointed out.

Sherlock thought about this. "Actually he's right." He said. "You need to work hard and do your best." He looked at her. "Does that sound more like a Dad statement?"

"Yes." She said with a smile.

"Fine. Then we'll go home, we'll eat pie and drink tea, then we'll work on your Maths."

* * *

**OK, so the next thing should be slightly more cheerful, but I'm beginning to take Bartimus' advice about not forcing myself to write something when it doesn't feel quite right. So thanks for that, Bart.**

**Hopefully there will be other chapters over the weekend, but I'm not promising anything right now.**

**Once again, thanks so much for all the reviews; I can't tell you the difference having feedback makes!**

**LP xxx**


	47. Two Occasions

**Two occasions**

**Right; I need to ask a favour. I am very interested to know if anyone reading has a favourite chapter, and what that chapter might be. The stats page can only give me so much; for example the surprise visit to University gets a lot of hits, as does 'How to Help', and I find both of those surprising. From the reviews and certainly from the prompts I've built up pictures of some of the people who read this, and I sometimes have people in mind when I'm writing something (I love it when I write a line thinking 'X will love this' and then X comes reviews quoting that exact line).**

**Anyhow, a long, long time ago this started feeling like a conversation between me and you lot and I've enjoyed it immensely. But like I say; I'm blocked; I feel like I'm at a party and have literally no clue what to say to the person I'm with. The prompts are still all excellent and that gives me a lot, but what I'm really interested in right now, is what you've liked so far and why.**

**And because I can't ask a favour without giving you a chapter, this prompt came from Mycroft in the 'Drugs' chapter:**

**"I can tell you that since meeting your father he's used recreational drugs on precisely two occasions. I know this because when he wishes to indulge he comes to my flat where his... equipment, is stored."**

**

* * *

**_Pre Scarlet, Post The Great Game._

The knock at the front door was faint. Mycroft might have missed it if his flat was anything other than completely silent, but tonight there was just the sound of the open fire burning in the hearth.

He went to open the door. Sherlock was standing several yards away and his back was turned. If Mycroft Holmes had been anyone other than Mycroft Holmes he might have assumed that Sherlock was a random passer-by and the knock had been imaginary. But he wasn't, he was Mycroft Holmes and there were no 'passers by' anywhere close to his building. He didn't linger in the doorway, but left the door open, went back to his lounge, and stared at the fire for a while.

He heard the front door close and the sound of Sherlock's steady footfalls walk towards the spare bedroom.

Mycroft wondered what the appropriate behaviour for this situation might be. Should he go and comfort his brother who was clearly in pain? Should he go and dissuade him from this particular course of action? Is it possible that Sherlock left his box here because he hoped Mycroft would perform one of these brotherly duties? He thought long and hard.

Eventually he stood up and walked along the hallway to the spare room. Sherlock didn't look up when he opened the door. The small cupboard was open, the key was in the lock.

The box was on the small bedside table, open, and Sherlock was staring at it. Mycroft found he wanted to avert his gaze from it; he was not remotely interested to see what was inside. Instead he looked at his brother. There was a dressing over the wound on his forehead. Two of his fingers were strapped together. There was a strangely geometric bruise on his cheekbone. Mycroft found himself subconsciously working through the causes of each of these injuries. Flying debris, mostly. The fingers were injured by the gun crushing against them when he fell, which seemed strangely ironic.

But they were just cuts, and bruises. Mycroft suspected that the real injuries weren't so superficial. They weren't so easy for him to explain either.

Sherlock had taken his coat off, and it was neatly folded and on the bed next to him. Both of his cuffs were undone; his cuff-links were on the table next to the box.

Mycroft cleared his throat. "How is John?" he asked.

Sherlock jerked, suddenly. His hand went straight to his hair, then back, self-consciously to his lap where it was steadied and folded under its brother.

"John is…" Sherlock said softly, then stopped. "John is… John is _John_."

Mycroft found he didn't understand. There was a lot about Sherlock he didn't understand and that fact, as much as Sherlock himself, frustrated him immensely. He glanced around the room.

"It might be a bit unwise, don't you think, considering your body's current fragile state at the moment, and the… more conventional medication you're currently on?"

Sherlock broke out of his reverie and sharply shut the box.

"You're too late." He told Mycroft.

He put the box back into the cupboard, closed and locked the door and slipped the small brass key into his pocket.

"I'll give John your regards when I see him next." He said to Mycroft before gathering his possessions and sweeping past him and out of the door.

oOo

_Still Pre-Scarlet._

Mycroft looked again at the small black and white monitor. Sherlock was still there, in the corridor outside his flat. He glanced at his watch. He'd been there for forty-five minutes. Mycroft knew that Sherlock must know that Mycroft knew that he was there. Mycroft was refusing to open the door though. He found he'd somehow formed a rule that he wouldn't open the door for this unless Sherlock actually knocked.

Sherlock looked strange, out there in the corridor in his morning suit. Mycroft found he was surprised; he hadn't thought John would bother with such formalities, but there was Sherlock, wearing a waist-coat and tails and there was even a top hat held listlessly in Sherlock's hand.

Mycroft stopped watching him and went back to his lounge with his book.

The knock came nearly an hour later.

He opened the door and walked away. He listened to Sherlock's footsteps head towards the spare room. He put down his book and thought.

An hour later, Sherlock appeared in front of him. He put the box down on the coffee table.

"You can destroy this." He said. "It doesn't work any more."

He turned and walked away. Mycroft heard the door closing behind him.

After a while, he picked up the box, returned it to the cupboard in the spare room, closed and locked the door, and put the small brass key inside the cavity in the base of the bedside lamp.

Every now and again, in the years that followed, Mycroft would go into the spare room to see if the key was still there. Every single time, he smiled.

* * *

**There will be another chapter tonight (children permitting), probably called 'First Days' the first bit of which is already in my head.**

**And in case you were wondering, my favourite chapter is probably 'Engaged'. The one I'm proudest of (I think) is Drugs.**


	48. First Days 1 and 2 of 5

**First days: 1 and 2 of 5**

**First off; thank you so, so much for the recent reviews; they were a much needed tonic. I suddenly know exactly what's coming up next which is a fantastic feeling to have. It's something that wasn't even on the horizon when I got up this morning, so yey! It's also been really useful to go back over some of people's favourites, focus on the specifics, and think about how I actually write these chapters (writing the other fics happens in a completely different way).**

**Anyhow, thank you, thank you, thank you!  
**

**This one started as 'first day of school' but I have once again twisted it to suit my needs. **

**Oh, and the children weren't permitting, so it's shorter than I originally planned and will be divided into several chapters – sorry!**

**

* * *

**_1 Day_

"Woo hoo! Has John already gone?" Mrs Hudson burst cheerfully into the front room.

"Apparently." Sherlock was sat on the sofa in pyjamas and dressing gown, his bare feet up on the coffee table. He was staring into space.

"Well, I don't imagine he could keep away." Mrs Hudson said. "Could you give him this when you go round there today?" She held up a small, knitted matinee jacket in cream wool. It had pink buttons.

"Who's that for? Is that for the baby? Does she need clothes yet?" Sherlock asked, deduced and queried in quick succession.

"Yes, Sherlock; babies need clothes." She told him patiently.

"Well, I'm not going round there today." He told her. "Why would I be going round there today? John's made it clear that he's not prepared to work with me for the foreseeable future."

"Well no, Dear," she responded, "he has new priorities and new responsibilities now. You just have to accept it."

Sherlock looked at her. "It's just a baby, Mrs Hudson. It's not like it's going to change any aspect of the world; it is ultimately insignificant, just like everyone else."

"Not to John, Sherlock." Mrs Hudson said, calmly.

Sherlock frowned. "Well, why would you think I'd be going over there today if you don't think John will be working on a case with me?"

"Because you're his friend, Sherlock." She said, rolling her eyes. "Because you might want to see that they've got everything you've need and look at the baby."

"I've already looked at the baby." Sherlock snapped. "The baby is officially looked at."

Mrs Hudson appeared to visibly melt slightly. "Oh! Is she beautiful? Who does she look like? Mary or John? Mary's very pretty but John's got nice kind eyes."

"Look like? She looked like a baby, Mrs Hudson. She was all red and... red. She didn't look like anyone at all. She looked more like a vegetable if truth be told. And she has a huge nose."

"Sherlock!" Mrs Hudson chided. "I hope you didn't say as much to John!"

He looked slightly confused. "Was that wrong?" He asked her genuinely. "It was purely descriptive; there was no offence meant. I'm sure John and Mary weren't offended."

"You told Mary her newborn daughter looked like a big-nosed vegetable?"

"A turnip, specifically."

"Sherlock!" Mrs Hudson said, crossly. "Well you need to go over today, just to apologise. It's good; you can take them a tuna bake from me."

Sherlock stared at her. "I'm not going! There's a baby there now. They'll be staring at her like she's going to get up and dance a jig when in reality she's just lying there doing... well, whatever babies do. And I'll be expected to say things that aren't remotely true about how wonderful she is when in reality she's just like every other baby in the world. No; I think I'll leave them alone until she's no longer in her larval form."

Mrs Hudson smiled. "Well, whatever you think is best, Sherlock. I wouldn't wait too long though. You might find when she's no longer larval, it's all a bit too late."

"Too late for what?" he said, frowning.

"Oh dear, Sherlock." Mrs Hudson said with a smile. She set off back downstairs.

"Mrs Hudson?" Sherlock roared.

"Yes, Dear?" She called back.

"Leave the cardigan and the tuna thing on the hall table. I've got to go out later; I'll deliver it on my way past."

"Thank you, Sherlock." She replied with a smile.

oOo

_Three_

John Watson; Army Doctor, had always travelled light. He had few important possessions that he carried from place to place and all of them were fairly small and portable. He had a rucksack in which he had a few changes of clothes, his laptop, his disassembled gun, and small framed photo of Mary.

Unfortunately, John Watson; father of one, wasn't able to travel quite so light. In addition to his rucksack, he had two large suitcases containing a number of Scarlet's toys from which she could not be parted, enough clothes to completely cover her through every combination of weather/illness/washing machine breakdown, several items of safety equipment, favourite foods, milk (because there was no way Sherlock would have bought enough milk), and her own bedding, because he was already fretful that she wouldn't sleep well in a new environment.

Scarlet herself was sat next to him in the cab, and it was only the seatbelt that was preventing her bouncing up and down with excitement. She had not stopped talking since they left the flat.

The plan, such as it was, was for Scarlet and John not to have a big moving day; they were just to visit, as if for a few days, and then just not leave. More things could be brought from John's flat as were needed. The idea was that Scarlet wouldn't be giddy with excitement for the first thirty-six hours of their life there. It would just be a normal day.

The plan had not gone according to plan so far.

They were nearing Baker Street when John's phone beeped with a text.

'_Got a case. Make yourself at home. SH.'_

John sighed with disappointment. He then ordered himself to get over it; the point was that Sherlock would work as normally as possible; it's just that he and Scarlet happened to live the same house as him. The fine detail would have to be worked out later, but ultimately Sherlock's work couldn't stop. Still, he was slightly concerned that he'd have an excited Scarlet in a house with no Sherlock in it all day.

His phone beeped again.

'_Make Scarlet at home too. Will be back before bedtime. SH'_

John smiled.

Settling Scarlet was easier than he'd thought it would be. Mrs Hudson had cleared out the extra room upstairs which she had previously been using for storage. The bedroom had been papered with Mrs Hudson's usual sense of style, in cream with small pink leaves. There was smart white bed, desk and chair, drawers and shelves, a flower-shaped, pink rug and pink floral curtains. John felt truly touched that such an effort had been made.

Scarlet was ecstatic. "Look at my room!" She cried. "Look at my room, Daddy! Look how big my bed is!"

Her old room had an ABC border and a mobile and she was still in the toddler bed, converted from her first cot. It occurred to John now that it might have been a fraction babyish for her.

They spent some time putting her toys and books on the shelves provided, and they put her bedclothes on the bed.

"My duvet's too short, Daddy!" Scarlet said, finding this fact hysterical.

He showed her where his room was. It was exactly as it had always had been. Exactly. He dropped his rucksack down on the bed and left.

They spent the day as they would anywhere else. John was surprised at how normal it all felt. When he came to making dinner he noted the huge effort that had been in the kitchen. The fridge was clean, there was enough milk, and there was nothing in the fridge that might be considered out of place or unusual. There was plenty of uncluttered worktop on which to prepare food.

He'd nearly finished cooking when Sherlock came home. He didn't acknowledge John or Scarlet, but went straight into the living room and sat on the sofa with his legs extended, his fingers steepled and his chin resting on his fingertips. John recognised this as his 'thinking' pose. Scarlet didn't.

"Sherlock! You came home! Sherlock! I live here now!" she told him in a whirl of excitement.

John looked in from the kitchen. He'd been worried about this happening for the past few weeks, and he was unnerved at not knowing how this particular meeting would go. Scarlet was used to Sherlock on his terms; he would visit when he was able and ready to engage with people. She'd never seen the quiet, intense, genius before. While he didn't want his loud, exuberant child to get in the way of Sherlock's need for quiet, he also didn't want any of his rage or frustration to land on her.

"Urgh, Sherlock! You smell pooey!" She told him.

He broke out of his trance and looked at her. "Do I?" he asked with a frown. "Oh yes, I suppose I do. I had to go and look at something in a sewer."

"Do you want dinner? Me and Dad cooked risotto!" She told him.

"I don't eat when I'm working." He told her.

Her face fell. "I made it with Daddy." She told him.

He looked at her for a long time. "Scarlet; why would someone tie red ribbons to someone's windows? I know I've heard of something similar but I can't place where. And I can't help but wonder if it's a red herring. Am I focusing on the wrong thing? It felt too obvious; to noticeable. What do you think?"

She stared at him. "It's chicken risotto." She told him.

He blinked. "And I would love some chicken risotto. Thank you for cooking for me, Scarlet; I'm a rubbish cook." He smiled at her.

She smiled back. "I stirred." She told him, importantly.

"It's nearly ready." John called from the kitchen. "I can save you some if you'd rather eat later." He told Sherlock.

"No, it's not a problem. My office hours might need to change a bit, that's all."

John smiled as he watched Sherlock drift off along another avenue of thought.

"Sherlock?" he said, and watched Sherlock jerk back into the present. "We're not usually fussy, but perhaps you could shower and change before dinner?"

Sherlock stayed and mostly toyed with his food, before he suddenly leapt up shouting "It was the wrong clay!" before darting out of the house again.

"It's OK." John told Scarlet. "He's always like that."

She accepted it without question.

oOo


	49. First Days 3, 4 and 5 of 5

**First Days, 3,4 and 5 of 5**

* * *

_Four_

Sherlock wandered into the lounge in pyjamas and a dressing gown, yawning. He'd been working non-stop on a case for the past four days, and he'd barely seen either John or Scarlet. He stopped when he noticed the sight in front of him. John was up and dressed and sat on the sofa, and Scarlet was sat on the floor in front of him watching the television while telling her Dad a story that appeared to involve mermaids. She was wedged, firmly, between John's knees and he had two hair-bands in his mouth. Sherlock watched as he divided Scarlet's hair into two sections, and then brushed one side firmly into his hand before tying it tightly into one of the hair-bands. He started on the other side.

"How do you do that?" Sherlock asked him, with a frown.

"The hard part is keeping her still." John told him through the hair-band.

Scarlet spun round to look at Sherlock and John dropped her hair. "Sherlock! I'm going to school today!" she told him excitedly.

"I can see that." He told her with a smile.

John started again on the second ponytail.

"I'm having lunch there! In the... in the... in the dining room. At lunchtime."

"Marvellous." Sherlock said. "And will you eat your vegetables?"

"No, they don't have vegetables at school." She told him with absolute certainty.

"Really?" He asked with a frown.

John shook his head slightly at him, and finishing Scarlet's hair, he let her go.

"Can we go now, Dad? Can we?" She asked John.

"Not yet. Very soon though." John told her. He stood up, stretched and walked towards the kitchen. "Do you want tea while she talks at you?" He called through to Sherlock.

"Please!" Sherlock called back. He sat down on the sofa so he could focus his attention at Scarlet-level.

"Sherlock! Did you see my uniform?" Scarlet demanded.

"I did." He told her.

"Everybody at school has to wear the same clothes." She informed him.

"Yes. That's rather the point of a uniform." He said.

"My uniform is a red cardigan, and a grey skirt and black shoes." She told him.

"Yes. So I can see."

"At school, there will be loads of people to play with."

"Good. That sounds nice."

"At least... at least a hundred people!"

"That is a lot." He agreed.

"And there is a big white board where my teacher will write things for us to do."

"Good."

"Sherlock..."

"Mmm?"

"My teacher is called... Miss... Miss... Miss... Streeter."

"Really?"

"Yes. And she has black hair. With some grey bits."

"Right."

"And I'll have lunch with no vegetables."

"Good."

"I think there are ponies in the playground too!"

"I don't think..."

"And there's a climbing frame."

"Yes, that sounds more..."

"And there's a great big picture of a rainbow."

"Uh huh?" He looked up as John came in with the tea. "How long has she been awake?" He asked him.

"Far, far too long." John said. "I think I may have over-sold school slightly."

"Mmm."

"Right, Scarlet..."

"Are we going? Are we going right now? To school?" She instantly demanded.

"Yes we are. Go and get your coat." He ordered her and she ran from the room.

John looked at Sherlock. "What if she hates it?" He asked quietly.

Scarlet appeared again holding her coat. "Will you help me with my buttons? Miss... Miss Streeter can help me undo them. At my school."

"I think that isn't going to be a problem." Sherlock told John, with a smile. He settled down on the sofa with his tea.

oOo

_Eighteen_

John pottered around the kitchen, cooking dinner.

Sherlock was sat on the sofa in the darkened living room. John didn't think the darkness was deliberate; Sherlock had been sat silently in the living room for several hours and the darkness had descended around him. He hadn't moved or spoken in eight hours.

John couldn't tell whether Sherlock was sulking at him or not. It was certainly possible. It might even be deserved; John had shouted at him quite unreasonably because he'd left his towel on the bathroom floor. The same transgression had happened every day since John first moved into the flat, twenty-five years ago, and every day he'd simply picked it up with a weary sigh. Until today when for some reason he'd ranted at Sherlock in a heated rage for ten minutes.

He'd made similar rants about Sherlock leaving tea-spoons on the work-top, about him leaving his laptop plugged in with wires trailing everywhere, and inexplicably, about him stacking the sauce-pans in the cupboard the wrong way. It was a full half an hour after this that John realised that he'd put the saucepans like that himself and that Sherlock hadn't touched them.

So it was entirely possible that Sherlock was sulking. On the other hand, he could just be being Sherlock.

He limped over to the kitchen divide.

"Do you want peas or broccoli?" He asked the darkness.

"I don't mind." Sherlock said.

"Well, choose one." John told him. "It makes no difference at all to me."

"It makes no difference to me either."

John sighed again and went back to the cooker. He poured a good amount of peas into a saucepan and stood there, watching them cook.

He thought about Scarlet. Peas were the one vegetable that she could be guaranteed to eat at any stage during her life. She ate them puréed as a baby, often ending a pea-meal looking like she originated on another planet. As a toddler, when she'd suddenly made herself a 'nothing green' rule, peas were the one exception, even when she wouldn't eat apples or lime-flavoured sweets. He remembered her picking them up, one by one, with her small, deft fingers. When she had a fever she'd eat them, still frozen, from a tea-cup.

He watched the peas float to the surface of the boiling water and turned the heat off. He took the pie from the oven, divided it equally, put it onto the plates, to which he added buttered potatoes and the peas.

"Grub's up!" he called through.

He heard Sherlock get up and make his way through.

Sherlock, appeared in the kitchen and blinked in the brightness. He looked at the plates on the kitchen, then at John.

"Are we expecting someone?" He asked him, with a slight smile.

John looked down at the three plates of food he'd served up. He cursed, angrily then picked up one of the plates and threw it hard into the sink. The plate broke.

He knew even as he did it that it was a massive over-reaction and he blushed and turned away, embarrassed. He waited for Sherlock's cutting remarks. They didn't come.

"Yes. I miss her too." Sherlock said.

John heard him sit down and pull one of the remaining plates towards him. After a moment or two John turned around and sat down opposite him with the other plate.

"Sorry." He said to Sherlock. "I'll get used to it."

"I hope so." He replied. "We haven't got an endless supply of crockery."

"Oh, the plate had it coming." John told him with a smile.

Sherlock smiled back. "Clearly." He said.

oOo

_Twenty-Seven_

Sherlock slowly descended the stairs to open the front door, wondering who could possibly be calling at the ridiculously early hour of 11:00. He smiled broadly when he saw Scarlet standing there with several brown paper packages under her arm.

"Good morning, Mrs O'Hara." He said to her. He suddenly frowned. "Will you be taking his name?" He asked.

"Scarlet O'Hara? No, I don't think so, Sherlock." She told him. "Is Dad up yet?"

"No, not yet. I think he might be a touch hung over." Sherlock told her.

He smiled and waved her inside, then followed her up to the kitchen, where she'd put the kettle on.

"Why are you here?" He asked her. "Shouldn't you be off, honeymooning somewhere? Or at least spending the day with your husband, in newly-wedded bliss?"

She laughed. "Yes, yes we should be doing that, but we've got stuff to do. The holiday will start tomorrow when we've done the packing, and got the lost property from yesterday to its owners, and found the disposable cameras and all the other stuff that still needs doing. Aidan's driving his parents to the airport to send them back to Dublin right now. But the most important thing for me to do was to come round and say thank you to you two. It was a lovely wedding. Seriously, it was everything I'd dreamed about. And it was a lovely speech. Thank you." She looked at him and smiled again.

"You're welcome." He said. "And I've printed off the slides for you to keep."

She laughed. "Marvellous!" she said. "In years to come I'll show them to my children as a testament to how strange you were!" She stood up and made the tea. "I have gifts for you too. I didn't want to give them to you yesterday in the middle of the reception." She handed one of the packages to Sherlock.

He unwrapped it and found a picture of Dr Johnson's house in oils. She'd captured the other-worldly aspect of that part of London perfectly. There was a shadowy figure on the left who looked suspiciously like himself. He'd been working a case in that area four months ago, but he didn't recall telling her about it.

"Do you like it?" She asked.

"It's perfect." He said, examining every brush stroke carefully.

John staggered in wearing pyjamas and a ratty old dressing-gown, with his eyes mostly closed. "Is there tea?" He asked, with a slight slur.

"There is." Scarlet told him, putting the kettle on to boil again, and putting some bread in the toaster.

"Thanks." He said, sitting down. He looked at Sherlock's picture. "Whassat?"

"It's a gift from Scarlet." Sherlock told him.

"'s good." He said.

"There's one for you too." Scarlet told him, and handed his package over.

He seemed to see her for the first time. "Scarlet! What are you doing here? Why aren't you with Aidan?" He suddenly frowned, concerned. "You haven't argued already have you?"

"Aidan's on his way to the airport, and I'm here to say thank you and to make deliveries. And our first argument is a long, long way behind us."

He smiled and stood to give her a hug. "It was a lovely wedding, Scarlet. Thank you!" He said to her.

"That's what I was going to say." She said, hugging him back.

The toast popped and she buttered it for him while he opened his gift. He looked at his picture, startled. It was a portrait of Mary.

"Is it OK?" She asked. "I did it about a year ago and wanted to give it to you on the right occasion. I think I've finally got her right."

He didn't say anything for a moment. "It's... it's exactly right, Scarlet. It's exactly her. Thank you."

She smiled. "I'm pleased. I'm particularly pleased that she's not an apple tree any more anyhow."

"It's perfect." John said. "It's absolutely perfect. Thank you."

"And if you don't like it, you can probably sell it for thousands." Sherlock pointed out.

"Sherlock!" Scarlet said, and she slapped him lightly on the shoulder. "Right; I'm going home to properly start my married life. I guess I'll see you too later."

She left them, staring at their pictures.


	50. Exhibition

**Exhibition.**

_Twenty-Four_

* * *

John and Sherlock followed Scarlet and Aidan up the steps of the Hickman Art Gallery.

"Feels a bit odd to be coming back here." John said.

Sherlock just grunted and sniffed.

John looked at him. "What was it? it must have been the first case we worked on together."

"It was the third." Sherlock said, shortly.

"Really?" John asked. "God, it seems years ago."

"It was years ago." Sherlock pointed out. "And before that we'd had that thing at the bank, with the Chinese Circus lot, and your 'A Study in Scarlet'."

John frowned. "'Study in Pink', you mean."

"Oh yes. Slip of the tongue. Yes; she was pink, wasn't she." Sherlock sighed, wondering where all the time had gone.

They followed Scarlet in to where she was introducing herself to the people at the front desk, and then they were all guided through to a large room at the back of the building, that was roped off 'for a new exhibition' according to the sign. It had large, uncluttered white walls and a floor-boarded floor. There were large windows on the smaller end wall, and they had black out blinds over them. Scarlet immediately pulled the blinds right down and turned round to examine her space, imagining what pieces would go where.

The three men watched her work, in silence.

There was a sudden interruption, and a loud and exuberant, middle-aged man burst in with an older gentleman following in his wake.

"Scarlet! Scarlet, Darling! There you are. Please let me introduce you to Harold Tsekouras, the manager of the Hickman."

The three men watched as Scarlet went over to shake hands with him, and to kiss the vibrant man on both cheeks.

"Leon, let me introduce you," she said; "these are my Dads; John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, and my boyfriend Aidan O'Hara." She looked at the others. "This is my sponsor, Leon Burrows."

"Aha!" John said. "So you're the person responsible for sending my daughter into a war-zone are you?" John shook his hand firmly. So firmly that it was a gnat's-tooth away from being assault.

Leon's face faltered slightly. "Er, I tried to dissuade her! And I suggested other options..." he said, with a slight tremble in his voice.

John smiled. "It's fine." He said. "We all tried to dissuade her. And I know how stubborn she can be."

Sherlock shook his hand too. "Don't worry; we're just here to hang some paintings."

"Oh no!" Said Harold.

"Oh, no, no no!" Leon echoed. "I'm afraid you really aren't allowed to touch the artwork! We've hired professionals to do all of that."

Scarlet noted the looks on John and Sherlock's face and turned away to hide her grin.

John frowned. "Why are we here then?" He asked her.

"I don't know." Scarlet told him. "I said I was coming and you lot all followed me. I assumed you just wanted to see the room. I'm sure I can find you something to do if you want to hang around though."

They in fact ended up pottering about for the next half hour while Scarlet discussed layouts and lighting and the like with Harold and his team. When they started making mischief, they were quickly roped in to help Bridget, the administrator at the Hickman, who had them sorting out programmes and commemorative packs for the attendees. It was dull work but it kept them in one place.

They all stopped when the art arrived. It was well packaged and being handled carefully by men who clearly were professional. Scarlet supervised the positioning and the lighting.

"She's going to wear herself out!" Aidan mumbled.

John smiled. "I'm sure she'll be fine." He told him. "The adrenalin will keep her going for a while yet."

Aidan sighed. "Well, I hope I'll be able to get her to eat something before it all starts. Adrenalin and nerves don't combine well with low blood sugar."

John and Sherlock tried to hide their smiles.

"Have you seen any of these before?" John asked Aidan as the packaging was removed from the paintings.

"No." He replied. "I've seen bits and pieces as she's been working on them, but not a whole finished piece. Certainly not all of them together."

They watched as the paintings as they emerged. They were in Scarlet's usual style: understated, not obvious, but strangely atmospheric and moving.

"John?" Said Sherlock.

"Mmm?"

"I don't think Scarlet's going to be a travel agent." He told him.

John smiled, and they continued watching her.

"Does anyone else get the impression that her nervousness is causing her to hinder, rather than help?" Aidan asked.

They looked and nodded slowly. "Let's all go for a meal," said John, "then you can take her home to get ready for tonight."

The slowly wandered over to remove Scarlet from under the feet of the installers. It took some persuasion but she eventually got the hint and came away, giving the room one last look as she did so.

oOo

It was later. The room was hot and noisy and there appeared to be a slight alcohol haze over everyone John met. He'd been cornered by a lady wearing what Sherlock would describe as 'an alarming shade of pink' and she was telling him in detail about the picture they were standing next to.

He nodded and smiled at her and drank his wine.

"Oh no! My glass is dry." He said, cutting her off mid flow. "Please excuse me!" and he darted off.

He came over to where Sherlock was sat on some chairs in a quiet corner.

"I think it's going well." He said.

"It certainly seems very full." Sherlock agreed. "And noisy. And Scarlet hasn't stopped being introduced and accosted by people for the past two and a half hours. I think that's probably a good sign."

"Mmm." Said John, lovingly watching her, as she stood gracefully and calmly talking to someone in a suit.

"You know I really don't like the way that boy looks at her." Sherlock said suddenly, cutting into his thoughts.

"By 'that boy', do you mean Aidan, her long term partner?" John asked him with raised eyebrows.

"He constantly looks like he wants to mate with her." Sherlock said in disgust.

John snorted. "Yes, I think he's a little bit in love with her." He said. "He certainly seems to care a lot about her. Is there something specific about him that makes you worried?"

"No." Sherlock said. "He's just not good enough for her in a general way."

"Well clearly." John agreed. "But just out of interest, can you imagine anyone in the world who would be good enough for her?"

Sherlock appeared to think about this, but didn't answer.

"The problem, Sherlock, is that she seems to be a bit in love with him too." John told him. "So your choice is this; try to get used to him, even though he may be slightly flawed, or don't, and lose her."

Sherlock huffed.

"I think he's nice." John said. "He's quite a laugh when you get to know him and he stops being intimidated by the fact you're Scarlet's father. Well, that's my experience anyway. It might take him a bit longer to stop being intimidated by you."

Sherlock grunted. They sat in silence for a while.

"Sherlock?" John said.

"Mmm?"

"I just wondered why you were dressed as a security guard?" John asked him.

"Oh." Sherlock said breezily. "Old time's sake." He noticed John's frown. "Also, this way I'd get to legitimately beat the crap out of anyone who tried to touch the _artwork_."

John sniggered. "Oh, I don't think there's much danger of that." He said. "It seems to be pretty well protected. It's a funny thought though, isn't it, that the stuff our girl doodles on the living room floor is suddenly worth thousands."

"I think her early work might not go for as much." Sherlock pointed out. "And no-one's having my 'Pancreas'. Or the delightful one she did of me vomiting to decorate my hospital room."

John smiled.

Aidan came over and sat down next to them.

"Leon's negotiated two sales, at least one further commission, and the National is interested in the row of three portraits over there to go into a larger thing that they're doing." He told them. "And yet Scarlet still seems terrified that something's going to go wrong." He sighed.

"She'll be fine, Aidan." John told him, patting him on the shoulder. "Tomorrow, when she reads the reviews in the papers she'll be sky high. You'll see."

"Yes, therein lays the problem. She's under the frankly insane impression that they'll all hate her, or think her work's a bit childish. You see that woman in pink over there?" The other two nodded. "She's with the Times. Scarlet desperately wants to make a good impression, but she hasn't had a second to talk to her yet."

"Surely they should be more interested in the paintings than her." Sherlock suggested.

"I'm not sure Scarlet shares your confidence about that." Aidan said. He sighed. "The stupid thing is, I know she's good at this. It's her job, and let's be realistic; she's already doing incredibly well for an artist her age. Sorry. It's just her nervousness seems to be rubbing off on me." He rubbed his face with his hands. "No; it's all going to be fine. I know it will. Ignore me. We'll deal with tomorrow when it happens."

Scarlet was walking over to meet them and Aidan got up and met her half way, taking her hands and kissing her lightly.

Sherlock watched him. "Well, OK. I'm prepared to accept the fact that he might not be _all_ bad." He told John.

John smiled again. He checked his watch. "It's nearly eleven. They'll be clearing people out soon. Let's say goodbye and leave Aidan to it and go and snag the first cab that goes by."

* * *

**Ladies and Gentlemen, this is the penultimate chapter. However, I have something quite special planned for the last one, which should be up tomorrow, children/time/mood permitting.**

**If anyone is willing and able to beta this, I'd be extremely grateful. Obviously it's hopelessly long, so I was thinking I'd divide it down to 5 chapter chunks, and go slowly with it. I don't know how beta-ing works though. I'd quite like to print and bind it so my family can have a read (and I can look back on it in years to come), and I'd prefer it without the awful spelling and grammar problems. I spot more on every re-read.  
**

**Oh, on that note I have to share this; in 'Chickenpox', I mention 'John's loser clothing'. Obviously I meant 'looser' clothing, but as typos go, it's such a joy that so far I've left it there.**

**Thanks all, **

**LP xxx**


	51. Back to the Beginning

**Back to the beginning.**

**Warning; a tiny bit of coarse but necessary language. Also special warning for Bartimus; you'll _hate_ this one. Make sure you're not eating while reading or anything. ;-)**

* * *

Sherlock looked at John and thought back, right to the beginning. He recalled when they first met, he'd told him "sometimes I don't talk for days on end..." He described it as 'the worst' that a potential flatmate should know about him. He smiled slightly. He realised in retrospect that it wasn't close to being 'the worst' thing about himself. Despite that, despite everything, John had stayed. And even though he'd temporarily left, Sherlock had forgiven him. How could he not, when he'd come back again, and brought with him something so extraordinary? Something that would make Sherlock's life so unrecognisable, and yet so _good._

Still, he remembered those words; 'sometimes I don't talk for days...' and thought that he'd completely underestimated just how unnerving that could be for an observer. John had neither moved nor spoken for seven hours and twenty-three minutes. His only action before that was to mechanically drink a cup of tea.

At one point Sherlock had left the room and come back to find John had been weeping quietly about something. His quiet "are you all right?" had fallen on deaf ears. The subsequent cup of tea, which Sherlock had placed in front of him, had gone untouched. Since then Sherlock had left him alone, reading quietly, looking at e-mails and answering the hourly texts from Mycroft and the several that had arrived from Lestrade and Molly.

John's phone lay completely still and silent on the arm of his armchair.

Sherlock sighed. "John." He said. "John!" he repeated, with his voice slightly raised.

From a long, long way away, John returned to the present. "Hmm?" he said.

Sherlock smiled. "Are you absolutely sure you don't want to go to the hospital?"

John closed his eyes for a minute. "Yes, I'm sure. She said she'd call the moment she was able to, and I know for sure that's what she'll do."

"But if we went down there we could at least get periodic updates from Aidan."

John smiled at a private joke running through his head. "No, Sherlock, we can't do that. It wouldn't be fair."

"But this is torture!" Sherlock complained. "I feel awful and it's clearly worse for you!"

"Sherlock, no. Scarlet..." He stopped, taking a moment to think about her. "Scarlet, right now, needs to be utterly focussed on what she's doing. It will be taking every ounce of strength and concentration and courage to do what she needs to do." Tears sprang to his eyes but he blinked them away. "I know she can do this; I know she will do this, and I absolutely will not interrupt her unless she calls and specifically asks me to go down there. That was what we agreed. The fact that she hasn't called means that she's still in control; this is a good thing."

"OK." Sherlock said. "I don't like it though."

John smiled. "I know you don't. But this isn't about what you want."

"I know." Sherlock said, quietly. After a few moments he looked up at John. "I'm sorry, John." He said, quietly.

"Hmm?" John looked at him. "Sorry for what?"

"Well, for interrupting you and Mary. It was wrong. I didn't understand then."

John smiled. "It's OK. You've made up for it since."

Sherlock's phone beeped.

"Oh for Heaven's sake!" he muttered, then he grabbed his phone and dialled. After a second he started yelling into it. "No! Mycroft! No, there isn't any _bloody_ news! If there was any _bloody_ news I would have called you and told you the _bloody_ news! Please stop sending me all these ridiculous, _bloody_ texts and just... well frankly you can just fuck the fuck off!" He ended on a roar and hung up.

John stared at him, bemused.

Sherlock glanced up. "Sorry." He said calmly to John. "I think I might have a little bit of pent up tension at the moment."

John smiled. "OK then. Well, should we make some lunch? There's no point us sitting around hungry."

"Well we could, but 'dinner' might be nearer the mark."

John looked up at the clock and swore quietly. "I'd no idea it was so late." A mild look of panic travelled across his face which he promptly banished. "No, it's fine; it's a first labour and twelve hours is no were near unusual. It's fine. It's OK." He started to drift off again.

"John?" Sherlock said softly and watched him resurface again. "So do you want food?"

"Food?" John asked. "Food! Yes, food and tea." He frowned. "And the loo."

"I'll get Chinese." Sherlock told him with a smile and he got up to gather his coat.

Sherlock was both surprised and pleased that John ate. He in fact virtually inhaled everything that Sherlock put in front of him, and he quickly drank a cup of tea and then instantly made another. Sherlock in contrast had only been able to push his own food around and eat the odd mouthful.

John smiled at him. "Nothing changes, does it?" He said, looking indulgently at him.

Sherlock frowned. "In my experience, everything changes, all the time. It's strange. It's not altogether unpleasant."

John laughed at him.

Sherlock smiled. "You appear to be feeling better anyhow? I thought you'd gone catatonic earlier."

"No, I'm fine. Today is a _good_ day."

Within half an hour, he was back to staring blankly at the wall, silent and still. Sherlock left him to it.

oOo

It was 4:32am precisely when John's phone rang. The sudden noise, in the silence of the room, caused John to jump out of his skin, and he sent the phone flying through the air and it slid, spinning, under the sofa.

Both men were instantly scrambling after it.

Sherlock got there first and clicked it straight to speaker-phone.

John was clinging to his arm. "Scarlet! Scarlet! Scarlet! Scarlet?" he called into the phone.

Scarlet answered. "Hello Granddad."

The strength went instantly from John's legs and he fell to his knees. Sherlock put his hand out to steady him and John stayed just about upright, leaning against him.

Sherlock sat down on the sofa and put the phone on the coffee table. He kept his other hand firmly on John's shoulder. "Scarlet? Are you all right?" he asked.

"Yes I'm fine. Tired and a bit dazed, but I'm buzzing." She answered.

"Did everything go according to plan?" He asked.

"Yes, everything went fine. I needed a couple of stitches and that wasn't pleasant, but the rest of it was fine. Well, painful and exhausting, but heck, I was sort of expecting that. It was nothing I couldn't cope with."

"I knew you'd be brilliant." He told her.

"Is Dad still there?" Scarlet asked.

"Yes he's here. I think he's a bit... happy. He's fine."

"'m fine, Scarlet!" John called to her.

"Good." Scarlet called back. "Look, they're going to move me to post-natal in a second. I just wanted to call before they did that. Are going to come in tomorrow, well, today I suppose, or wait until I come home?"

"We're coming in!" John said instantly. "Can we come now? Right now?"

Scarlet laughed. "No, Dad, but visiting hours start at 8:00 which isn't that long to wait. Come early; there's a little boy here who's longing to meet you."

"A _boy_!" John said, enchanted. "A boy! A boy! Oh Scarlet... Oh, Scarlet."

"I'll see you later, Dad." She said, and she hung up.

John leaned against Sherlock. "A boy." He whispered.

Sherlock patted him on the back. He found he couldn't stop grinning.

"I suppose you'd better call Mycroft." John told him.

"Oh, Mycroft can wait."

"_Sherlock!_" John said.

"Fine!" Sherlock said, and with a dramatic sigh he called his brother.

oOo

Neither of them bothered even trying to sleep. John occasionally did a strange dance while walking to the kitchen. Sherlock occasionally mocked him. Cushions, books and other assorted household objects were thrown in good humour, though not with any real intention to hit their targets.

They both drank to Mrs Hudson's memory, in tea.

John went to his room for a while to chat to his Mary portrait.

Sherlock hugged John. John hugged Sherlock back.

They broke from each other and some names were called and some other things were thrown.

They drank more tea.

At 7:30 they wandered down to the street to try to find a cab. Neither was particularly surprised to see a large, black sedan at the kerb, with both Mycroft and Lestrade leaning against it.

"I thought you'd like a lift." Mycroft said. "The traffic can be so bad at this hour, don't you find?"

"You're not seeing the baby before I do!" Sherlock instantly said.

"Oh settle down, girls." John told them. "Sherlock, get in; I'm going to the hospital now, and this car is conveniently here. If you'd prefer to stay here and argue with someone, fine, but I'm going to the hospital _now_."

He got into the car, and Sherlock, with a look towards Mycroft, followed him. Lestrade took the third seat and Mycroft settled into the front."

"Helen all right, Greg?" John asked across Sherlock as they set off.

"Yeah she's fine." He told her. "Her knitting's gone into over-drive though; I suspect the new baby might drown in wool."

"It's very kind of her." John assured him. "How are the grandkids?"

"They're fine. Noisy, mostly, and some have a few violent tendencies, but generally they're fine. They don't seem to hate me any more, so that's good I suppose."

"Being a step-father can be tricky." Sherlock sympathised with him.

"Oh, really?" John asked.

"Yes. I'm afraid I have more experience in this area than you do, John, so if there needs to be advice, I'll be the one giving it."

"I don't think so." Greg said quietly.

John sniggered.

They got to the hospital in fifteen minutes, and wandered in through the main entrance. There was a large waiting area just inside the front doors and John and Sherlock stopped for a moment.

"Is that Aidan?" John asked Sherlock, with a frown.

It was. He was asleep across three of the waiting room chairs.

"Are you a relative?" A porter called to them. "I was just going to wake him and move him on."

"It's fine; we'll take care of him." Sherlock called back. He and John woke him and got him to his feet. He stood there looking slightly confused.

"John! Hi! The baby came!" He said.

"We know, Aidan." John told him gently.

Aidan seemed to stare at something in the middle distance for a moment. A second later he shook himself and looked at John.

"Did you want to come and see him?" He asked.

"Yes, Aidan. We would like that." John answered, bemused.

"This is my brother, Mycroft, and our friend, Greg." Sherlock told him.

"Yes... yes I remember from the, er, the er... the wedding." Aidan nodded for a moment. "Did you want to come and see my son?" he asked them, suddenly.

John and Sherlock flanked him as they all walked towards the post-natal ward.

Sherlock stopped suddenly. "I should have bought a gift." He said in a panic. "It's what you're supposed to do."

"It'll be fine." John told him. "Scarlet won't mind."

There was some difficulty outside the ward. Most of the people there were waiting alone or at most in pairs. John began to grow self-conscious, realising that being in a party of five men might be a touch unusual on the post-natal ward.

As he'd suspected, they weren't all allowed in. A very stern looking nurse told them that they would have to visit in pairs.

"I'm going first." Sherlock instantly said.

"No, Sherlock..." John started.

"No, it's fine; me and you, we'll go first." Sherlock told him.

John grabbed Aidan and pushed him in front of Sherlock. "Sherlock, this is Aidan, he's the _father_. He wants to go and see his son! Please could you try to imagine that!"

"Fine! Fine." Sherlock said. "I'll go in with Aidan."

"Nyyggg." John said.

"Not good?" Sherlock asked. "Oh; is this a grandfather outranks step-grandfather thing? Because you've yet to show me any proof of that..."

Aidan suddenly laughed. "It's fine, John. I said hello last night and I'm going to have him every single day from now on. You two go in; I really need a coffee and to freshen up anyhow."

John looked at him with unending gratitude. He then pushed forward to go to find his daughter.

Scarlet, when they found her, was dozing gently. She was curled up on her side, and her right arm was draped into the plastic cot beside the bed. Her hand was over her son's chest, feeling it rise and fall as she slept.

"I taught her that." Sherlock whispered.

"God she's beautiful." John replied.

Scarlet stirred and looked up at them. "Wow." She said. "Did you two get any sleep at all?" She asked them.

"Not a whole heap." John admitted. He went over and kissed her lightly on the forehead, and subconsciously checked her temperature and pulse.

"Are you OK, Sherlock?" She asked him.

He was staring at the cot. "Yes, I'm fine." He answered. "Can I see him?" He asked eagerly.

"Dad first." She said firmly, and just smiled when Sherlock scowled. She gently picked the baby up and handed him over to John.

He stared at him for a long time, not saying anything. "He's perfect, Scarlet." He finally said. "He's perfect."

"Let me! Let me!" Sherlock said impatiently. John laughed but handed him over.

Sherlock took his turn, staring at the baby. "He's going to be clever, Scarlet. You can tell. He's got that look about him."

"Yeah, I bet you said that about me too." She said, with a laugh.

"Oh, you're clever-clever, Scarlet. Look what you made." He turned the baby slightly so she could see him.

She smiled at him. He cradled him properly and turned so he could perch on the bed. He seemed to be having some private, mental conversation with him, and was suddenly oblivious to John and Scarlet.

"Are you OK?" John asked her, gently. He stroked her hair.

"Fine." She told him. "A bit dazed still, and very tired now, and I have to admit, it all aches a bit. I just want to go home and sleep."

"I'm sure they'll let you go soon." John reassured her. "It's important that they check stuff."

"What's his name?" Sherlock suddenly asked.

"Arthur." Scarlet told him.

"That's a fine name!" He said to her. "Arthur Sherlock Watson. Perfect."

She smiled again. "Arthur John Owen Sherlock O'Hara." She said. "Poor boy; he'll never remember them all."

A nurse popped into view. "Ms Watson; your other visitors are getting restless." She said.

"We'll go." John said instantly. Sherlock made no move to leave. John sighed. "OK, I'll go and send them in one by one."

Sherlock gave him a small, slightly triumphant smile. John kissed Scarlet again on the forehead, and then with one last stroke of Arthur's head, he left.

Sherlock looked up at Scarlet. "You know, make a good looking baby." He told her. "He's much better looking than you were at his age."

"Good, well, I suppose that's a good start then." She said to him.

"You looked just like a turnip." He told her. "He's nothing like that. He's much more... much more of the potato variety of baby."

She laughed. "You're not calling him 'Potato' for the next ten years, Sherlock!" She told him. "I won't have it."

"No? OK, fine." He said, with a dramatic sigh.

Arthur opened two beady eyes and fixed them on Sherlock. Sherlock was momentarily startled. "Hello, Spud." he whispered to him.

Mycroft rounded the corner.

"Look!" Sherlock said to him. "_I've_ got a grandchild!"

"Sherlock, would you please give me my baby back?" Scarlet asked him with a smile.

Sherlock did so, and left in triumph.

He found John in the corridor, half asleep already, leaning on a window-sill. He woke him gently. "Come on; let's get a cab. I don't think I could stand to get in that damned car again."

"Yeah." John said, stretching. "We'll sleep this morning, then go round to Scarlet's this afternoon. Sound good?"

"Sound's perfect." Said Sherlock. "But I need to stop at a few shops to pick up some item's that young Spud will need."

"Spud?" John asked, with a raised eyebrow.

"Spud." Sherlock said, with absolute, unshakable, certainty. "He's going to be clever, you know."

They walked off together to find a cab.


	52. A Scarlet Letter

Isn't this a turn up? Bet you didn't expect to see _me_ here!

OK, well while Pip has had a little rest (ha – I don't think I know anyone less able to 'rest' than Pippin, well, if you don't count Sherlock that is) I've been sat resting quietly in her head. Well, that's what I did for a few days anyhow, then I started wriggling a bit and making her a bit sleepless, and giggle while she's supposed to be concentrating at work; that kind of thing.

This morning I started poking her in the eye while she was driving to work and she finally agreed that I could drop you a quick note.

We've been negotiating the terms and conditions on another Scarlet story. Hurrah!

Pip has given me the following edicts.

**The new story would follow the layout and style of my other stories. It would be a single mystery/adventure with chapters in chronological order. It will not be in First Person, Scarlet will be 17.**

OK, well whatever.

**Scarlet will not be as central as she has been in this story.**

Yeah right; that's what she said about me in _this_ one. She called me a 'prop'! A _prop!_ The cheek of it! Anyhow, I think we all know who wears the trousers in this particular Author/character relationship. (Pip, by the way, wears jeans every day – she has even less sense of style than Dad. I weep for her.)

**I need to finish AWOL and the next planned adventure, which will be based on the Garridebs, so this won't start until mid-December at the Earliest (they'll know what the Garridebs means, Scarlet, even if you don't).**

I neither know nor care what the Garridebs are. I cannot see how they could possibly be more important than me – my story's the one with all the hits, Pip, how d'you like _them_ apples. Besides, will everyone even still care about Sherlock at Christmas time? They're not all as obsessive as you, remember. You might want to re-think that plan, Pip, you snooze you lose in this game.

**There may be trouble in store for Scarlet.**

Wait! What? WTF? What the hell are you intending to do to me, beyatch?

**Not quite as much trouble/angst as there will be for John and Sherlock though.**

Meh, I care less about them. They can take it.

**I'm not writing it if people don't want it. I've found this story quite special in and of itself and I'm not 100% sure about taking you out for a different kind of outing, Scarlet, so let the readers decide.**

Fine, fine, whatevs. I've put a poll up in Pip's profile. One person one vote. Will I stay or will I go? _You decide!_

OK, well, I can hear Dad yelling about the state of the kitchen and how it's my turn to clean it (dull) so I'd better go.

See you all at Christmas time, maybe?

Love to you all,

Scarlet J Watson.


	53. Nativity!

**Well, obviously I was going to give you a Christmas Special...**

**Best holiday wishes, peace, and love to all of you.**

**Pip xxx**

Nativity!

_six_

Sherlock woke up and rolled over to look at the clock. It was 7.52. He considered the pros and cons of getting up this early.

Pro: Scarlet would still be home, and he did like seeing her.

Con: Scarlet would still be home, and she could be a touch... _awake_ in the morning.

He could hear her now, her voice piping excitedly to John. He could hear John occasionally making comments to her. It would appear that she was more than the usual level of _awake_ this morning.

He lay there, enjoying the fact that there was no reason at all for him to get up before midday if he didn't want to. He felt a vague, abstract and easily squashed pang of sympathy for John who had to get up every morning.

On the other hand, Scarlet did love John more than she loved Sherlock, and he vaguely wondered if this was because John got up with her every morning, made sure she had plenty to eat, made sure she was bathed and that her homework was complete... No, it couldn't be about that. All of those things were dull, and Scarlet was anything but dull.

Another 'pro' occurred to him: if he got up now, John would make him a cup of tea, and if he didn't, he'd have to wait for him to get back from school drop off. Or he'd have to make it himself.

He shuddered at the thought and launched himself out of bed.

The conversation came into focus as he walked down the stairs. Oh yes, the nativity. Scarlet had been talking of nothing else since she got home from school yesterday. He leaned against the kitchen door frame to watch.

"And then, and then, and then... she was sick on Dominic's head!" Scarlet told John.

"Yes I know, Scarlet..."

"And then Mrs Churcher said that I could be the Angel Gabriel!"

"Yes, Scarlet..."

"And I have so many lines!"

"Scarlet..."

"And I know all of them! I know all of the lines! So Mrs Churcher chose me!"

"Scarlet!" John bellowed at her.

She looked at him as if she hadn't even realised he was there.

"Scarlet, what did I ask you to do twenty minutes ago that you still haven't done?"

Scarlet looked blankly at John.

"The Mativity play's at two thirty."

"'Nativity with a 'n' Scarlet," John corrected automatically. He put his hands on her shoulders. "Now look at me and concentrate. What did I ask you to do?"

Another blank look.

"OK, Scarlet, look down and that might give you a clue."

Scarlet's head dropped as she looked down.

"Mop the floor?" she asked with a frown.

John shut his eyes. Sherlock recognised his 'praying for patience' face.

"No, Scarlet," John said. "No. Look at you. Do you really think you can go to school wearing just your knickers and vest?"

Her head bobbed up again. "I need to get dressed."

"Yes!" John smiled. "Go and get dressed."

Scarlet turned and noticed Sherlock.

"Sherlock! Do you know what has happened?"

Sherlock smiled. "Yes. Milly Thompson was sick on Dominic's head in the rehearsal of your nativity yesterday. So now she can't be the Angel Gabriel, and Mrs Churcher said that you can be the Angel Gabriel because you know all of the words."

Scarlet looked at him with a pained expression on her face. There was a brief internal battle that she appeared to lose.

"She was sick on Dominic's head!" she told him.

"Yes I know, Scarlet, we've all heard. You need to go and get dressed."

Another pained expression and her words tumbled out in a rush. "I know all the words so Mrs Churcher said I could be the Angel Gabriel!"

Sherlock glanced across the kitchen to where John was banging his head on the kitchen table. He looked back to Scarlet.

"Is it a very important part?"

"Yes! I have lines and I have a sing a whole verse by myself! I get to wear the costume with the gold tinsel and all the other angels only have silver!"

"That does seem very important."

"It's the best part there is! Apart from Mary, but Melissa is Mary and she wasn't sick. Not on anyone."

"Well, it seems to me that Mrs Churcher would only give the Angel Gabriel part to a very responsible person."

"Yes, she said 'best behaviour' for the whole of today."

"So she wouldn't want to give the part to someone who was late for school because she wasn't dressed on time."

Scarlet's eyes widened and she darted past him into the lounge.

"Tea?" John asked.

"Please."

Scarlet reappeared. She was now wearing knickers, vest, and one sock.

"What if I'm sick on someone too?"

John looked at her. "Oh for the love of God, Scarlet, would you please, _please_ get dressed?"

She wandered off again, only to appear a moment later with a second sock in her hand.

"Sherlock, you will come and watch me, won't you?"

"I don't know. It's not my thing really."

"Daddy!"

"Of course he will, Scarlet. Now go and get dressed."

"I did like being a normal angel, but being the Angel Gabriel is still better."

"Scarlet!" John yelled.

"Scarlet," Sherlock said, "I'm trying to think of a less appropriate part for you than 'Angel'. I can't. Unless it's 'Wise Man'."

Scarlet stared at him for a moment with a frown. "Daddy!" she complained, "I think Sherlock's being mean to me but I can't tell!"

"Sherlock, please don't wind her up more than she's currently wound. Scarlet, go and get dressed. If you're not ready in fifteen minutes, I'm going to school without you and _I'll_ have to be the Angel Gabriel."

Scarlet roared with laughter. "Daddy! You're too tall!"

"Come on, Scarlet," Sherlock said, taking her hand, "I'll help you get dressed. Just this one time though."

oOo

At one thirty, John nudged Sherlock awake again with his toe.

"Sherlock, you need to wake up and get dressed or we'll be late for the play."

Sherlock didn't open his eyes. "Do I _have_ to go?"

"Oh, no you don't _have_ to go at all. Scarlet will cry though."

One eye opened. "Couldn't you just tell her that I was there?"

"Nope. I'll tell her you couldn't be bothered, and then she'll cry."

"You're evil."

"Yep. Get up and get dressed. Do you want to eat before we go?"

"No, I'll eat later. Give me a second."

Just as John had decided Sherlock had gone back to sleep, he leapt up off the sofa and headed towards the shower. He was ready in his coat at ten past two, and they made their way towards the school.

The hall was already crowded by the time they got there, causing Sherlock to grumble.

"It's fine," John told him, "we'll just stand at the back."

As they took their places, Sherlock frowned at someone in the back row.

"Is that Mycroft?" he whispered to John with a frown. "What's Mycroft doing here?"

"He asked for a ticket and I saw no reason not to give him one."

"No reason? No reason? He's _Mycroft!_ That ought to be reason enough!"

"Oh settle down Sherlock."

Sherlock glowered. He tore a corner off his programme, screwed it into a ball, chewed down on it briefly, then flicked it at Mycroft. It hit him squarely on the back of his neck. He turned round and glared at John.

"It wasn't me!" John mouthed at him.

Mycroft just frowned and turned away.

"Thanks a lot!" John said to Sherlock.

Sherlock was shaking with silent laughter. John tore a corner of his programme, rolled it into a ball, chewed it, and flicked it. It hit a very stern looking lady in the seat next to Mycroft. She glared at John.

"Sorry!" John whispered.

She turned away tutting.

John grinned and tried hard not to look at Sherlock, who was still giggling.

The stage lights were turned on and the reception class, dressed as a variety of animals, was lead in to take their places next to the stage. There was a lot of waving at parents.

"They're not very focussed, are they?" Sherlock pointed out.

"They want to see their parents, that's all." John told him. A number of parents were waving back.

"There's a tiger!" Sherlock said, incredulous.

John sniggered.

"It'll eat the sheep!" Sherlock told him.

"Shuttup." John said, trying hard to control himself.

"Stop giggling!" Sherlock told him.

"You stop giggling!" John returned.

They tried calm down and be vaguely sensible. The narrator introduced Mary, who was on the stage, pretending to scrub the floor with a dry brush.

"Here she comes!" John whispered.

Sure enough, there was Scarlet, holding the hem of her skirt up so that she could climb up on the highest block where the spotlight shone on her in all her finery. She squinted into the audience and scanned it. When she spotted John and Sherlock, she waved and grinned.

John waved back.

"Don't distract her!" Sherlock told her. "I think she's got a line now!"

Sure enough, Scarlet said in a loud voice, "I am the Angel Gabriel!" She stopped, her face fell and she stared desperately at the audience.

"Oh no..." John whispered.

"I am the Angel Gabriel..." She stopped again.

"Should we rescue her?" Sherlock asked.

"Give her a second," John answered, willing her with his entire mind to remember the next words.

Scarlet looked down at Melissa, on her hands and knees in her blue head-dress.

"Oh!" Scarlet said, as if she'd just noticed Melissa there for the first time, "Oh! I am the Angel Gabriel, Mary, and you are going to have a baby!"

John and Sherlock breathed out again.

"How can I have a baby when I am not yet married?" Melissa chanted.

"Oh don't worry!" Scarlet told her. "You don't have to be married to have a baby! You just need one egg from a mummy, and one sperm from a daddy!"

"Oh fuck." John murmured.

There was a deafening silence in the school hall.

"I don't think you got the words right." Melissa told Scarlet loudly.

"God is with you!" someone whispered from the side of the stage. "God is with you!"

"God is with you, Mary!" Scarlet said loudly. "God will make you pregnant! So it must be his sperm. You have to have sex with God, so that you can have his baby!"

"Holy Spirit! Holy Spirit!" the voice whispered, desperately.

The Angel Gabriel declared unto Mary: "I think you have to get drunk first."

oOo

Parents milled around the school hall, waiting for their children to change their clothes. There was a fairly large avoidance semicircle around John and Sherlock. John was stood, leaning against the wall and Sherlock was sat on the ground, still crying with laughter.

Various parents occasionally turned to give them a look, which only caused Sherlock to laugh more.

Mycroft had wandered over briefly.

"Well it was certainly... educational," he said to John. Sherlock choked and giggled. "Her improvisational skills are... remarkable." Sherlock snorted and coughed.

"Mm." John said, nodding.

Mycroft had disappeared.

Scarlet finally came into the hall, looking somewhat crestfallen.

"I forgot some of the words," she told John.

"No, no, you couldn't tell. You covered it really well!" John told her.

"Scarlet," Sherlock said, wiping his eyes and pulling her towards him, "Scarlet, I can honestly say that there has been nothing in the past thirty six years that I've found even half as entertaining as I found you in that play. You were brilliant. Utterly, utterly brilliant."

She gave a forlorn smile. "I don't think it was meant to be funny though."

"You know what, Scarlet? Any God worth believing in really ought to be good for a giggle."

"Carry me home?" she asked him.

"Absolutely." Sherlock replied, letting her climb onto his back.

He carried her proudly from the hall.


	54. Frozen Peas

Frozen peas.

_Scarlet is seventeen. It's Boxing Day, right after the Christmas from Light Versus Dark._

John looked across into the kitchen to where Scarlet was washing up. Or rather, she had been washing up, but now she was staring out of the window, holding onto a dinner plate. The dingy light from the winter's day was rapidly diminishing, and though he was under a pool of light from the lamp, she was stood in semi-darkness. He thought about getting up and turning the main light on, but he was distracted by his thoughts.

He studied her for a while. The most common word said about her recently was 'resilient'. Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, Mycroft, they'd all been around and chatted spent time with them and had all at some point taken him aside to compliment him on Scarlet's resilience. He'd nodded his agreement, and hadn't shared the fact that he was feeling niggling doubts on that issue. Sherlock had said it first, the night after she'd come home, but he hadn't repeated it. John wondered if Sherlock was beginning to have doubts too.

He couldn't quite pin point what it was that was bothering him. She'd cried a few times, but quickly pointed out that it was to be expected and John had agreed with her. Her appetite wasn't great but she was certainly making noble attempts to eat. This evening was the first time he'd seen her actually skip a meal, and he worried and fretted but he didn't comment on it yet. She'd noticed him noticing anyway, and she did point out that her cold was killing her appetite and she assured him she'd eat toast later. She'd given him a quick smile.

These quick, little smiles were one source of concern. She was trying so desperately to be normal, to make the tea, to decorate the flat for Christmas, to knit with Mrs Hudson while they chatted, to do the washing up. But she'd stopped smiling. She tried, the muscles moved, but he wasn't sure he could remember when he last saw her smile with her whole face simply because she couldn't contain the smile.

And every now and again, her face would go very still and she'd drift off entirely.

She'd always been a daydreamer, but her dreams had come with a commentary or a dance or a game. He remembered one particular walk home from school when she was about six or seven, when she started talking as soon as she was through the school gate. She had outlined the flat she was going to live in in Rome in minute detail, describing it right down to the fabric she'd have on the cushions on the sofa. She'd only stopped when he tiredly suggested fish and chips simply to give her mouth something different to do.

As she'd grown older, he'd seen her muttering or whispering to herself while she painted, utterly intense and absorbed but completely active, mind and body, working together.

Her daydreaming was different now. It was quiet and still and it worried him.

Sherlock came downstairs and walked into the kitchen.

"Are you making tea?" he asked.

Scarlet spun around and screamed and dropped the plate. John was on his feet in a second and heading towards her, though he half expected her to just brush off the scare and laugh. She didn't. She just stood there gasping and shaking and John's concern grew.

Sherlock looked horrified and he snapped on the light.

"Scarlet! I'm so sorry! I didn't mean… Scarlet, it's fine, it's just me!"

She was bewildered, her eyes wandering from Sherlock to John as he headed towards her. She started to cry.

John reached her and pulled her towards him. She held on to his jumper and shook and gave more gasping cries. As he stroked her back and kissed her head John frowned as he noticed how hot she was.

"Scarlet? Are you…" he cut off as her legs buckled from under her and he had to hold her upright. He looked up at Sherlock. "She's fainted. Here, help."

Sherlock shook himself out of his surprise and came over to gently lift her from John's arms and he carried her into the front room. He put her down on the sofa and was relieved to see she was already conscious again. He retreated and gave John space to look after her.

"Sorry," she whispered, wiping her head. "What happened?"

"You're OK, pet," John said. He handed her a glass of water and watched as her hand shook as she took it. "I think you just had a little faint, that's all."

She nodded and winced as she drank some water. She hadn't had much when she handed it back to him. He sat down on the coffee table and smiled at her. She started crying again.

"Scarlet, I don't think you're very well," John told her.

"It's just a cold," she muttered, wiping her face.

John leaned over her and took her temperature with his hand.

"Nope, you're burning up," he dropped his hand to her wrist and took her pulse. "A nice racing heart too."

"It's just a cold," she wailed.

"Sherlock, could you get my bag?" he moved so he was sat on the sofa with her, and he brushed her now short hair back from her face for a moment. "Scarlet, you don't have to be invincible."

She shook her head again and cried some more. Sherlock was back with the bag and he handed it across and withdrew, choosing to stand at the other side of the room, holding on to his hair.

John ignored him for the moment and he fished his thermometer out of his bag. He took Scarlet's temperature quickly and found some paracetamol and ibuprofen for her.

"Are you in any pain?"

She shook her head. "It's just a headache! I've just got a cold!" She wiped more tears away but took the water and the pills. Again she winced as she swallowed.

John took the glass back and rummaged through his bag for his light. "Open your mouth," he commanded when he found it. He gave a quick look and his mouth twitched as he tried not to smile. "Scarlet, you've got tonsillitis."

Her face crumpled and she cried some more.

"Oh, Scarlet, it's fine!" He pulled her up into a hug, "Shhh now, it's OK! It's fine! You're allowed to have tonsillitis!" She sniffed and sobbed against his shoulder for a moment.

They were both distracted by Sherlock who was now pacing back and forth across the living room. "God! What are we going to do _now_?" he asked nobody in particular. "This isn't… I mean… _tonsillitis_!"

John shook his head. "Sherlock, it's _fine_. What we're going to do is get some penicillin, Scarlet will dutifully take it, and in a few days she'll feel much better. Could you please calm down? You're wearing a trench in the floor!"

He stopped pacing and looked at John and Scarlet. "Sorry."

John grabbed his prescription pad and started scrawling on it.

"You can't write prescriptions for me," Scarlet reminded him.

"I'm putting it in Sherlock's name."

"Oh. That makes it all ethical then." She gave him another brief smile and she wiped her face with her hands. John's heart broke for her a little bit.

"OK, I'll need to take this over to the twenty-four hour place. You need to drink the rest of that water while I'm out."

"Do you want me to go?" Sherlock offered.

"No, I'm already dressed. I'll be as quick as I can. You can sort out some bedding and refill her water. Scarlet, try not to worry Sherlock too much while I'm out."

Scarlet gave him another quick smile and he was straight out of the door.

Sherlock went to find the spare pillows and duvet. They'd been out most of Christmas as Scarlet had been tired, and the previous evening had seen all three of them bundled up on the sofa, watching a Morecambe and Wise Christmas special. Scarlet had put them away in the morning, clearly determined to draw a line under the whole incident with Moriarty. Sherlock bundled her up again now.

"There now," he said. "Here. Water."

She took it and drank a little more but handed it straight back to him.

"John says you have to drink it all."

"I know. I just…" She leaned back against the cushions and closed her eyes.

"Are you OK?" Sherlock asked. He perched on the edge of the sofa and took her hand.

She nodded, and then gave him a smirk. "Actually, isn't that one of those really stupid questions that nobody else is allowed to ask?"

Sherlock smiled. "OK, well, could you list the ways in which you're not OK, please?"

She shook her head. "My throat hurts."

"Scarlet, you have tonsillitis. I've had tonsillitis and it's agony! I can't believe you didn't notice!"

"I was just distracted I think." She closed her eyes again and swallowed. "I feel a bit sick too."

"I'll get you a bowl."

"No, I'm not going to _be_ sick. Well, not now anyhow, I can't guarantee anything while I'm taking penicillin. I hate bloody penicillin. I'm just nauseous, it's probably because of the crying."

"You haven't eaten much today. That can't be helping."

"Well, I don't want anything now."

"Drink some water." He handed the glass back across and she drank a bit more.

"I think I'd prefer tea," she told him.

"Mm. John said water though."

"Tea's got water in it."

"OK, I'll make you some." He headed into the kitchen, sending a text as he did so.

'_Can Turnip have tea?'_

The reply came as the kettle was boiling.

'_Good idea. Put sugar in."_

"He says it's OK," Sherlock called through.

Scarlet didn't answer. Sherlock turned back to her and she was crying again, desperately trying not to be heard. When she saw Sherlock looking at her she covered her face with the duvet. He went back through to her and pulled the duvet away from her face.

"Scarlet, it's OK. It's all right. You're going to be fine.

She shook her head again and continued crying. Sherlock watched her, wanting to hug her, the way John did, (the way he did until two weeks ago), but not knowing whether it would make her uncomfortable.

"I'll finish the tea," he told her.

"And peas," she murmured.

"Sorry?"

"Peas." She sniffed. "Not cooked. Just from the freezer."

He nodded and went. He returned quickly with two steaming mugs of tea and a small bowl of peas stacked on one of the mugs.

"Peas, tea." He handed them across.

She sniffed. "Thanks. Sorry, I'm not doing very well with not making you worried, am I."

"I'm not sure he meant that seriously. Besides, I'm fine. I'm not remotely worried."

"Liar."

"I'm a bit worried." He pushed the coffee table closer to her, and then moved her legs slightly so he could sit on the sofa with her, putting her feet back on his legs. He stroked them through the duvet, feeling this was an acceptable compromise.

He watched as she ate a few peas.

"Scarlet…" He glanced at her. She was looking at him. He looked away again and stared at the coffee table. "Scarlet, I was wondering, was your statement to Sergeant Gregson complete?"

He glanced at her again. She'd frozen with a pea half way to her mouth.

"I didn't lie," she said, quietly.

"I know. No, that's not what I meant. I just wanted to know, I wanted to be sure that you hadn't left anything out."

"It was four days. I'm not sure I can remember all of it. But I told her everything that happened when… when _he_ was there."

Sherlock nodded slowly. "OK. Good." He glanced over to her with a smile and she was crying desperately and quietly again.

He removed the bowl of peas to prevent them spilling. She'd covered her face with her hands and he tried to take one of them but she didn't move it. He settled for stroking it with her thumb and he let her cry for a while.

Eventually she moved her hand and looked at him.

"I know what you're thinking of. I know and nothing, _nothing_ like that happened! He was creepy and… and weird but he didn't touch me other than to hit me that time. It was like he didn't want to touch me, like he'd get a disease or something."

"Good."

"I'm amazed he cut my hair. It was like I disgusted him."

Sherlock sat still and listened to her, just holding her hand and stroking it some more with his thumb.

"My hair!" she wailed. "My hair! He cut my hair!"

Sherlock refrained from telling her they'd kept it, and just let her cry for a while.

"I'm being so stupid!" she sobbed, crossly. "I'm being _so_ stupid! Everyone keeps saying how brave I'm being but I don't feel brave! All I want to do is cry about my hair and it's stupid because," she broke off and sobbed for a moment, "because, it's just _hair_ and he didn't do anything like…. I know it could have been so much worse. It could have been so much worse so I should just get over it and I'm being stupid because it's just hair!"

She coughed and choked suddenly, covering her mouth with her hand, looking desperate. Sherlock reached for the bin, just in case, but she shook her head and lay back, taking shuddering breaths. She controlled the nausea and he put the bin down and resumed stroking her feet.

"Sorry," she muttered eventually.

"Scarlet, you haven't got anything to be sorry about."

"I'm not supposed to be worrying you."

"Like I say, he didn't mean that. Scarlet, I just think..." He broke off and sighed. "Scarlet, you know that I'm not the expert with this sort of thing, but I _think_ that it's OK to feel fairly miserable about him cutting your hair off. And all the rest of it too. Just because it might have been worse doesn't mean that it wasn't awful enough. You don't have to feel or act a certain way, or compare what you went through to what someone else might have experienced."

She nodded at him and wiped her face. "I wish I knew how long I'll feel like this."

He nodded at her and they sat quietly for a while.

"Sherlock," she whispered. "What happened when he… How did Moriarty die? What happened to him? Were you there?"

He looked at her again. "I'm not sure we should talk about this now."

She shrugged and stayed quiet.

Sherlock sighed. "He asked me to come and meet him, and when I got there he offered me a choice. He said he'd release you and let you go home if I blew up a block of flats. He said that if I did that, you'd be free, but I'd never see you again."

Her eyes widened slightly. "And you chose _me_?"

"No. Well, maybe. Actually I have no idea what I was going to do, and I don't remember much about it."

"But you killed him. You didn't… you didn't choose either, you killed him instead."

"No, Lestrade killed him."

Scarlet frowned. "But I didn't… How did I get back?"

"I worked it out. I worked out where you were. From your clues mostly. God knows, it took me long enough."

She stared at the duvet. "I thought I was going to die," she whispered. "That morning when he didn't show up, I thought it was all over. I couldn't get out and there was no one to bring me water…" She glanced up at him. "I'm sorry! I'm so sorry, I didn't mean you hadn't… I know how hard you were working! I didn't mean you weren't quick enough!"

He shook his head and blinked away tears. "No, I know. I know you don't blame me, but that doesn't mean it wasn't hideous for you."

She sniffed. "Sherlock, a part of me feels like I did die there. It feels wrong, being here. It sort of feels like the world split in two and somewhere there's a world where Scarlet Watson did die, and that world's right, and in this world I'm just carrying on but I shouldn't really be here. I feel like the 'right' world is going to catch up with me eventually and I'll die, and that will put everything back on track."

Sherlock took a deep breath. He continued stroking her feet and he took her hand again and stroked that for a while too.

"Scarlet, remember that doctor at the hospital wanted you to go and see your doctor? I think you should do that when the holidays are over."

She sighed but nodded. "You think I'm depressed. I've been wondering too."

"No, I'm not sure. It's not really my area. But I would say that once, only once in the whole time I've known him, John told me what it felt like to have PTSD, and what he described wasn't dissimilar to what you've just described. And I think that if a doctor can help you with some of that then you should get that help."

She nodded again. They heard the door bang closed and they sat there in silence while they waited for John to appear.

"Right! I have penicillin, bubble bath, codeine for if you need it, this candle because well, it was there and you like candles, and mints."

Sherlock and Scarlet looked at him with their eyebrows raised.

"Look, it was a long queue and things were just there. And I told you to drink that water, not to ignore the water, demand tea, then ignore that too." He glanced at Sherlock who was wiping his own tears away. "And I told you not to worry him."

"I'm drinking it slowly. And Sherlock thinks I have Post Traumatic Stress thingy."

John faltered for a moment but then he nodded. "Yes. Well, we still need to make you that doctor's appointment and we'll take it from there. But tonsillitis can make you feel seven different kinds of crap, so we'll eliminate that first and then work on everything else. Now, what do you want to eat? You have to eat something before I give you penicillin because you know what a mess it makes with your stomach. Do you want toast?"

Scarlet smiled at him, this time calmly and he could see a distant gleam of humour somewhere at the back of her eyes.

"Well, I'm so glad you're here to make a huge, unnecessary fuss!" She told him. "And I'm going to be fine. Look, I've got peas. We all know I'll be absolutely fine just as long as I've got enough frozen peas."

* * *

**Yes, I'm as surprised as anyone to see me here. I have to admit, my writing brain is slightly fragmented at the moment and I've got thoughts and ideas flying all over the place and nothing's settling. So I'm reopening this one, and I'll update to this,**_** Slightly, Rapid Eye Movement (which will no longer be restricted to song titles), Blankets and Blood and Bones, **_**depending on what takes my fancy at any given moment. I'm hoping that should tide me over until Season 2.**

**Sorry for the erratic-ness! **

**And sorry for reopening with 'tense' rather than 'funny'. There will be more funny.**

**Pip xxx**


	55. The Birthday Present

**Hi! I'm deciding that reopening this one wasn't a bad idea. Thanks to Mattsloved1 for pointing out a problem with the reviews though. I deleted the chapter with all the authors notes, not because I'm not still extremely grateful for the help and the reviews I've had throughout this, but because I noticed a warning that you shouldn't have ANs for whole chapters and I didn't want to be banned!**

**Consequently, all the reviews moved along a chapter, so the ones for Nativity now show up for Frozen Peas, so if you already reviewed Nativity, you were frozen out. Sorry. I'm taking a chance that some of you did try to review, and if I'm wrong, I'll simply die of embarrassment later. **

**Anyhow, I'm hoping that's all resolved with this chapter! Like I say, the other stories will also be updated, but I'm in a JFF place right now.  
**

**Pip xxx**

* * *

The Birthday Present.

_It's Scarlet's eighteenth birthday._

Scarlet pushed her chair back from the kitchen table.

"I'm stuffed. I seriously couldn't eat another bite."

"Marvellous," John answered. "All the more for me."

"Actually I could probably fit in another strawberry or two."

"With chocolate sauce?" Sherlock asked.

"Naturally."

They looked up as the front door shut and they heard the sound of someone in formal shoes running up the stairs. The fact that the person had to stand panting half way up told even Scarlet that it was Mycroft.

He eventually appeared, looking flushed.

"Good morning! And happy birthday, Scarlet!" He wheezed a bit.

Scarlet got up smiling and kissed him in welcome. "Do you want to join us for breakfast?"

"No, I want to give you your present." He glanced at the table. "Although, this does look rather good. Devonshire cream tea for _breakfast._"

"With chocolate sauce," Sherlock informed him.

"It's Scarlet's birthday breakfast, so it's her choice," John told him. "Sit down and join us. Scarlet's present can wait."

"I'm not sure it can!"

"Why, what is it?" She asked him. "An ice-cream?"

"No, it's not time sensitive, it's just very exciting. Though I can probably restrain myself while I eat just one scone. Perhaps with a little bit of cream."

He sat down at the table and they waited while he ate three scones and drank two cups of tea. He finally sat back, content.

"How is the diet going, Mycroft?" Sherlock asked him.

Mycroft glared at him and turned to Scarlet. "Now, Scarlet, I wanted to make up for the frankly awful Christmas present I gave you…"

"Mycroft, you don't need to, I keep saying! And you already have, you took me shopping remember? And I know I keep saying I behaved myself but I really did take advantage, you know."

"I know, but it still didn't make up for it. I'm hoping this might."

He handed her a small, gift-wrapped box. She picked it up and unwrapped it to reveal a small jewellery box. She opened it to find a key. She stared at it for a moment, confused.

"Mycroft, you know the problem wasn't with the presentation, right?"

"Yes of course! The problem with the other key was that it was for a flat you didn't want. This isn't."

"Oh, Mycroft," John said, "Please for the love of God tell me you haven't bought her a different flat!"

"Oh no! This is much better than that! Put your shoes on, I'll take you to see it."

"I'm not dressed!"

"You don't need to be. Just shoes! Come along, it's not far."

She shook her head, but she got up to find her shoes and coat.

Mycroft smiled happily and then glanced over at John and Sherlock, both of whom were staring at him.

"Mycroft, what have you done?" Sherlock asked.

"No, this is good! I promise you!"

"What is it?"

"No, I'm not telling. Put your shoes on, you should come and see too."

"It's not a car is it?" John asked. "I'm not sure she has the right temperament for driving. She's a bit… easily distracted."

"It's not a car-key, John!"

John and Sherlock sighed in unison and stood up to find their shoes. Mycroft started preparing himself another scone.

Scarlet reappeared, and despite Mycroft's words, she had pulled on jeans and a top.

"Right, I'm ready."

"Marvellous!" Mycroft said, jumping up. "Come along everyone!"

He led them down the stairs and onto the pavement just outside the house. He stopped there and the others piled out beside him. He was beaming.

Sherlock turned to look at the house. Her eyebrows shot up.

Speedy's had been closed for some time, causing John to grumble about the sudden lack of bacon butties for breakfast, and causing Sherlock to complain about the noise as renovation work took place. Scarlet barely registered it, walked past the boarded window every day. None of them had enquired as to what shop would open in its place.

Someone had gone to extraordinary effort to cover the new shop sign under birthday wrapping paper. The main window was similarly dressed with a large bow in the middle. A trailing ribbon from the top sign was hanging free for someone to pull.

"Go on then, Scarlet, open it!" Mycroft said. He was rocking on the balls of his feet, the closest thing he could get to jumping for joy.

She took hold of the ribbon, but stopped and turned to him. "You know I can't cook, right?"

"Oh you won't need to! Go on! Open it."

She pulled the ribbon and the paper fell away from the sign. Sherlock grinned and helped pull down some of the paper that had been left behind.

The sign was white and in neat blue lettering, it declared 'Scarlet Watson: Artist Studio and Shop."

Scarlet stared at it for a moment, not moving or speaking, with her mouth hanging open.

"Open the rest of it!" Mycroft said. He didn't wait for her and started pulling the paper from the window. John helped him with a huge grin.

There was a slight anti-climax when all that was revealed was a new security blind.

"You open it here," Mycroft told her. "It's a combination lock." He opened a weather-proof flap on the wall and typed the combination in. He hit the button and the blind slowly whirred open. It revealed a neat new shop-front, the wood painted white around the large windows. On either side of the door the large windows there were small easels propping up two paintings that Scarlet recognised to be some of her early work.

"Obviously, you'll want to choose your own pictures for display," Mycroft told her. "I only had a few of my own to choose from. And I haven't yet brought back the Sherlock portrait. I do intend to. But not yet."

"That's fine," Scarlet said softly.

"Open the door!" Mycroft gave her the key and she took it mechanically.

She unlocked the door and the others followed her in. The shop was quite Spartan. The walls were painted in clean white, and there were hangers already attached at various intervals for her to hang pictures.

"Again, I thought you could probably choose your own. There are all sorts of hanging up stuff in the cupboard under the counter there."

He nodded towards a little stand with a high stool behind it. There was a telephone standing on it, and a book and some pens and general stationery. Scarlet glanced at it for a moment before looking at the rest of the space.

There were two large easels with canvasses standing on them. There was a neat stack of dust-cloths for her to cover works in progress, and the floor was sensibly linoleum. There was a more comfortable pair of chairs at the back of the shop for her to sit and discuss things with customers.

She walked past to where the little kitchen had been and flicked on the light. It had been turned into a store room. The shelves were neatly laid out with all sorts of paints and pastels and the like. There were brushes of different sizes and qualities. There were canvasses of all shapes and sizes, sketch pads in abundance. There was a double sink, clay, and what appeared to be a very small kiln with a similar sized fridge next to it. There was a kettle on a small worktop and pots labelled 'tea', 'coffee' and 'sugar'.

She went back out into the main shop.

"Well? What do you think?" Mycroft asked her.

She opened and closed her mouth a few times.

"Holy fuck!" she finally came out with.

John winced. "Scarlet! Language!"

"Sorry, I mean… I mean…" she turned around taking everything in again. She looked into the store room again. "I'm mean… No, I'm sorry. 'Holy fuck' is the only thing that will do."

"Actually I think it's quite apt," Sherlock said.

"So this is right?" Mycroft asked, confused by her reaction. "This isn't wrong, is it?"

"No," she said with a smile. "This is very right!" She walked over to him and grabbed hold of him in a huge hug. She didn't let go and he nervously patted her shoulder before wrapping his arms gently around her and hugging her back.

"Good," he said. "That's all good then."

oOo

They thought about going back upstairs for more tea, but Scarlet suggested she christened her new kettle so Sherlock dashed to the corner shop for biscuits and they stayed where they were.

Scarlet felt the thrill of ownership as she waited for the kettle to boil. This already felt like her place, and as if the others were merely guests.

"Mycroft," Scarlet said, handing his coffee to him. "I really like this and everything, and I'm _really_ pleased that you have confidence in me, but I still want to go to university. In Brighton. I think I've got a lot to learn."

"Of course!" Mycroft said. "I wouldn't expect it any other way. And at some point you'll clearly need a much bigger studio, but I thought this would do well enough for now, and for weekends and holidays." He smiled at her and she nodded, relieved.

"You'll need to learn book-keeping," Sherlock said from where he was perched at the counter, flicking through a ledger.

"I think I'll probably have time for that," Scarlet said. "I can't imagine more than one transaction a quarter. If that!"

"I'll help with the book keeping," Mycroft said.

"What about manning the shop?" John asked. "There should probably be someone here if we're filling it with Scarlet's artwork."

"We can work out opening hours later," Mycroft said. "I would suggest leaving the door locked even when Scarlet's in here. She can see if someone wants to come in and browse, and the phone number is on the window for enquiries. We can have it diverted when Scarlet's away."

"You've thought of everything," John said, smiling.

"Another thing I have a quote for is knocking a doorway in that wall," he nodded at the wall divided the shop from 221B's hallway. "We didn't go ahead before because it would ruin the surprise somewhat."

"Oh, that's a good idea," John said.

"Mm," Scarlet said. "It would be a bit of a shame to break up the display wall."

"It needn't be a big door," John told her. "We could even have it backed to match the rest of the wall."

"Mm," Scarlet said again. "Maybe."

Sherlock grinned. "Quite like having your own space here, Scarlet?"

"Yes. I mean, it's not like I'm far away. Just a couple of footsteps really."

"Well, we can wait for that," Mycroft put in. "The quote will be good for a while."

"Why don't we start bringing your stuff downstairs?" John asked her. "Oo that way you could tidy the rest of your bedroom! Maybe you could even vacuum, Scarlet!"

She rolled her eyes at him, but smiled nonetheless.

They spent the rest of the day slowly bringing bits and pieces of artwork down from her room. There was actually very little that she thought was worthy of display. The other three disagreed with her.

There was nearly a big argument between John and Sherlock over a picture of Waterloo Bridge. It was only averted by the arrival of her first VIP in the form of Mrs Hudson. Scarlet led her through to the chairs and brought her tea and biscuits. Mrs Hudson raved about everything she saw.

"What about something for my flat, Scarlet? I could commission you! I'd get friend's rates I assume!"

"Mrs Hudson, I'll paint you anything you want for free!"

"Oh, Love, that's no way to run a business!"

Scarlet laughed. "I'm really not sure I can think of it in terms of running a business! Actually that's a thought. I have no idea how to value anything."

Mycroft looked at her and frowned. "You need to work out the cost of your materials, and the time you've spent on each item and cost that time per hour. That's your minimum price."

She frowned back. "That makes no sense. Something might have taken ages because I just couldn't work it out, and it might turn out rubbish. Something I might spend half an hour on might turn out really well. It's hardly fair to charge more for the rubbish piece."

"Mm. I see we may have some work to do on entrepreneurial thinking."

Scarlet grinned. "So, just asking people who come in how much money they'd like to give me for what they want, that wouldn't work then?"

Mycroft grimaced but smiled when it appeared that Scarlet wasn't being quite serious.

"I suppose the first thing to do might be to populate it a bit more," Scarlet said. "I need to get on with painting really."

John glanced at her, for a second. She hadn't done much work at all since before Christmas. He hadn't mentioned it, and it was only a few weeks really, but he wondered if she had also noticed.

"Well, maybe we should go and leave you to it," he said. "I need to start dinner. Don't be too long though, you've got dinner with us, and then the thing tonight with your mates."

She nodded at him. She didn't look away from the canvass she was looking at.

Sherlock helped Mrs Hudson to her feet and they left Scarlet alone.

John came downstairs again much later. He could see her still sat in the chair, staring at the canvass. The light was on now, and he was pleased to find the door was locked. He waved through to her and she came to let him in.

"I was wondering if you were going to come upstairs and grace us with your presence. You are the guest of honour at dinner."

"Yeah, why, is it time already?" She dug out her phone to check. "I should probably get a clock for down here."

"Perhaps."

She wandered back to the canvass. It was still blank. She glanced at John.

"You know that feeling where you have anything in the world you could paint, and all the equipment in the world to paint with, but not the slightest clue what you should actually be painting?"

"No, not really."

She smiled. "No. Maybe not."

"No, I mean, for me it's fairly easy. Sherlock gets a case, I go with him and watch it, then afterwards, I simply write what happened."

She looked at him for a moment. "You know, it hadn't actually occurred to me that you're an artist too. I'm quite ashamed about that."

"Well I'm not really. I'm a… well, a chronicler I suppose."

"No, I've read your stuff. There's an art in it when I think about it. I just haven't before, because I'm distracted by finding out that you've abseiled down a building and other stuff while I was at home doing my homework."

He smiled again.

"Come and eat. I refuse to lose you to all of this just yet!"

"I'm just downstairs, Dad."

"Yes, but there's no door leading from my place to yours, and that feels weird."

"OK. I'll just…" she looked around, but could find no excuse to stay longer. "OK, I'm coming."

"OK. And don't worry about that," he pointed at the blank canvass. "It'll come. It just will one day."

"It might be rubbish though."

"And if it is, you'll paint over it and do something better. Come along now."

She smiled but let him lead her from the shop.


	56. Concussion

Concussion

_Scarlet is three. It's a month or so after 'The List'._

Sherlock woke up. He took a long, slow breath, trying very hard not to move his head. He tentatively lifted his hand to it and was surprised that it felt much the same size as it always did. He thought it might be bigger, in order to fit in all the extra pain.

He breathed out again and tried to piece together what had happened the night before. He remembered the case, Lestrade, as shouted warning, a brief scuffle with a man with a mallet, and then little else.

He knew without opening his eyes that he'd been brought home. He had a vague recollection of John taking charge of him. He could tell that his bedroom was still dark, but he was also aware that it was morning. He knew that John had slept in his room all night. There were probably deductions to go with all of these facts but he couldn't be bothered to work out what they might be.

He hoped that John would arrive soon to give him many, many painkillers.

There was a little breath from next to him, and a slight pulling of the duvet.

He opened his eyes and moved his head very slowly until he found Turnip. He actually over-achieved and found two Turnips at first but he blinked and concentrated until they morphed into one.

He thought he'd test-drive his voice.

"Hello," he whispered.

"Hello," she whispered back. "Have you got a poorly head?"

"Yes. A bit."

"Did you fall down?"

He briefly considered the merits of telling her the truth. "Yes, I did."

"Is it very ouchy?"

"Yes. A little bit."

"Is that where?" She reached out and poked the bandage on his forehead. He inhaled sharply but managed not to swear.

"Yes," he said. "Yes that's where." After a moment he realised that she in fact had only found the lesser bump on the front of his head. He suspected the one on the back was worse.

He became aware of her pulling herself onto the bed and he braced himself. In fact she just brushed the bandage with her lips.

"There. I kissed it better."

He was moved by her tenderness. "Thank you." He brushed his fingers through her hair for a moment. It was very soft.

John appeared and he rushed over and picked her up. "Come on, Monster, I said to stay downstairs today," he said in a whisper.

"No! I was helping!" Scarlet whined.

Sherlock was torn between grinning and grimacing at the sound. He heard John carry her back downstairs, and then return without her.

"Sorry," he whispered when he reappeared. "I only took my eyes of her for a second."

"It's fine. She was helping."

"Yes, I'm sure." John sat down on the bed. "Right, let's look at you." He held Sherlock's eyes open while he flashed his light in them.

"Jesus!" Sherlock winced. "Give a man some warning!"

"If I had, you'd have fought me. How's the pain? One to ten."

"About nine."

John frowned. "That's not good." He stared at the wall to think about things for a second. "Maybe we should take you in after all."

"Sorry, did I say nine? I meant five."

John grinned. "OK. You can take some pills in a second. How's the nausea now?"

Sherlock frowned. He realised from the burning at the back of his throat that he must have vomited the night before. He didn't remember it and he hoped it hadn't been anywhere too conspicuous.

"I think I'm fine. I'd like some water."

"I'll have to sit you up."

This he did with some difficulty, but as gently as he could. When Sherlock risked opening his eyes again, he could see John looking at him, concerned, and Scarlet in the doorway again, stood on one leg with her tongue out. He smiled and took the glass that John was holding out to him. As he took a couple of mouthfuls, John selected several pills for him to take. He took them and leaned back against the pillows and shut his eyes again.

"Right." John said. "There's a bell there in case you need anything, but I'll be checking on you at half hourly intervals anyway."

"Thank you. I'm glad you've got some help."

John turned and saw Scarlet in the doorway and he sighed.

"Sorry. I'll see if I can keep her out of your way."

"It's fine."

"I'll see you in a bit. Don't try to move or do anything silly like that."

"OK."

Sherlock closed his eyes again. He could hear John carrying Scarlet away and while negotiating the terms of her staying downstairs.

oOo

Sherlock woke up again just under two hours later. He could feel a soft weight leaning against his cheek and he opened his eyes. He panicked for a second as it appeared he was being buried or trapped by something. As his vision cleared he could see that he had been surrounded by soft toys.

He heard small footsteps come into the room and the weight of the bed moving as Scarlet scrambled onto it. She was muttering in whispers to herself.

"Mr Pig can go there, but Donkey has to go in the middle, just there. 'But I can't see!' Oh, little mouse, I'm sorry, why don't you snuggle up with Dolly so then you can see…"

Sherlock slowly raised a hand and pulled one of the bears away from his face until he could see Scarlet. She'd frozen while she watched him, not sure if she was in trouble or not.

She opted for a very cheeky grin. "They're looking after you."

"Yes. I can see that."

"Do you need more toys?"

"No. I think I'm fine now. Where's your Dad?"

His question was answered as John appeared in the doorway and looked at Scarlet with an exasperated sigh.

"Sorry," he whispered again, coming to pick her up. "I'll be back in a second."

He carried Scarlet downstairs again, and was back, alone, in a moment. He started picking the soft toys up from the bed.

"Sorry," he said again. "She appears to find you irresistible."

"It's fine. It's not a problem. Leave the bears, it really doesn't matter."

John took armfuls of them back into Scarlet's room.

"How's the pain now?"

"Dull. Both in the sense that it's not as bad as it was, and in the sense that it's really boring."

"Is there anything else you need?"

"I could do with some more water."

John helped him to sit up and drink again.

"Do you need the bathroom?"

Sherlock frowned. "Well I didn't until you mentioned it. Well done!"

"I'll get you a bottle."

"Nooooo!"

"You're such a prude! OK, slowly, I'll help you up."

Sherlock managed the short walk to the bathroom better than either of them had expected. John waited outside for him. He looked down the stairs at Scarlet, waiting at the bottom, clearly desperate to come up again.

"Scarlet, you know what I think Sherlock would really, really like?"

"What?"

"I think he might like you to make him a huge picture."

"With stickers? And sequins?"

"Yes, I should think so. You go and get your box out, and I come and help you in a moment."

"I'm finished," Sherlock said.

John opened the door and helped Sherlock back to his bed. Sherlock groaned as he settled himself down.

"You all right?" John asked.

"Yeah. You could have left me with just one teddy bear though."

oOo

When Sherlock woke next, one large teddy-bear had been restored to his bed. He smiled, not sure whether it was there on account of John or Scarlet. He suspected the latter. John had apparently left his own gift of a small pile of pain killers and a glass of water on his nightstand. He slowly and carefully heaved himself more upright until he could reach them.

He sat there for a moment, listening to the sounds of John and Scarlet talking downstairs. He couldn't make out what they were saying, but he could hear Scarlet's piping voice. He wished she'd come back upstairs again.

He realised it was getting towards early evening and he pulled himself up onto his feet. After getting his balance back, he slowly and carefully started walking downstairs.

The front room seemed very bright after the darkness of his bedroom. He decided that it didn't hurt his eyes though. It also looked warm and homely. The fire was on, with the guard put up in front of it. Scarlet was on the floor with a huge piece of paper which had been covered with small drawings and stickers and pretty much anything else she could stick onto it. She was surrounded by colouring pens and pencils, sequins and glitter. She was talking to herself.

She looked up and saw him.

"Sherlock! Are you better?"

He smiled at her. "I'm a bit better."

John came into view. "You shouldn't be up! Go back to bed."

"I got bored." He went to sit down carefully on the sofa.

"Well it's nearly bedtime. If you suffer another hour I'll come up to entertain you later."

"How?"

"I don't know. I could read to you or just sit there while you tell me how useless I am or something."

"Look, I made you this!" Scarlet said, giving her paper to Sherlock. "It might be finished!"

He took it. "It's lovely Scarlet. It's certainly very full!"

"I put everything on it."

"So you did." He brushed his hand through her hair again. It got stuck.

"Ow!"

"Sorry, it's…" He used his other hand to detangle it. "What's in her hair?" he asked John.

"Er, not sure. Could be glue I suppose. Or sweets. Or stickers. Or a number of other things that aren't worth thinking about. Scarlet, come and eat your dinner."

She hopped down from the sofa and climbed up to the table where there were a pair of boiled eggs and toasted soldiers for her.

"That looks good," Sherlock said.

John looked over, surprised. "Do you think you could stomach it?"

"Mm. I should think so."

"I'm happy to make another lot for you." He headed back into the kitchen.

Sherlock looked at John's armchair. The Union Jack cushion had had its cover removed, and there was a damp patch on the chair itself, where it had been scrubbed. That answered one of his questions from earlier.

He glanced around the rest of the room. There was a stack of Scarlet's books in a pile on the desk. Her snap cards had been pushed under John's armchair. He could see two puzzles and the pieces from a shopping game that had been left out. There were several DVDs out of place. Sherlock's violin had been put on a high shelf.

It occurred to Sherlock that if John had been checking on him at half hour intervals, then he'd had no time to take Scarlet out so she must have been crawling up the walls. With Mrs Hudson visiting a friend in Cornwall, and an enticing but out of bounds invalid just upstairs, John must have had his hands full today.

He suddenly felt quite guilty.

"Look, don't cook just for me. I'll do it later."

John appeared and looked at him with raised eyebrows. "Really?"

"It's boiled eggs. I'm sure even I could manage to cook boiled eggs."

"Really?" John looked amused.

"Maybe not."

"I've finished!" Scarlet said. "Can Sherlock do my bath?"

"No, he cannot."

"I can!"

"No, you can sit there and concentrate on not passing out."

"I feel fine."

"No you don't. And I'm still prepared to take you to the hospital, particularly if you do any more damage to yourself by doing too much, so sit there and stay still. Come on now Scarlet, up we go."

He sat back on the sofa and listened to the sounds of Scarlet giggling in her bath and John laughing with her. She was taken up to bed and he could just hear the murmur of her bedtime story. He sighed.

John finally came back downstairs again.

"Right, I've just remembered I'm half way through cooking your supper, and now the toast will be cold and the eggs will have turned to cannon balls. Are you OK to wait for me to try again? Well, actually, you'll have to be."

"Don't worry about it. Just leave it and sit down for a bit."

John looked at him. "OK, I'm doing the light thing again now." He flashed his light into Sherlock's eyes. He sat back, satisfied by what he'd seen. "Well the concussion is as it should be, which means the altered state is just you being weird. That's good to know."

"I'm not altered!"

"You're trying to be nice."

"I can do that sometimes!"

"Just sit still. I'll sort you out with some toast but I think I've ruined the last of the eggs. Do you think you could manage a tea?"

"I'd love one."

"OK then." John went into the kitchen. "I'm not tidying up until tomorrow though!" he called.

"Mm. I don't care. I've seen it worse."

"You've made it worse."

"That's true. Thanks for putting the violin away."

"It's no trouble. I do wish you'd remember it though. As soon as she sees it she just can't resist. She's like a moth at a light bulb."

"It doesn't matter. It's just a violin."

"Mycroft said it was valuable."

"It is. It's just money though."

"Nice."

"No, I mean, she's more valuable."

"Yes. The thing is, while I know what you're getting at, I'd still rather she didn't break something that's worth tens of thousands of pounds just because she's both curious and clumsy."

"Mm. Thanks for being here, John."

"What?" He came back into the room with toast and tea and put them down on the coffee table.

"I like you being here. I know that days like today must be harder for you. The idea was that I'd help, not that you'd have two hopeless people to look after instead of just one."

"Are you sure you're not altered?"

Sherlock smirked. "No. I'm just grateful."

"Well stop it. It's weird."

John went back to get his own tea and toast and he gathered the remote control on the way past and he turned the TV on. It blazed with a garish coloured cartoon.

"Peppa bloody pig," he muttered. "Here. Find something to watch that doesn't make me crave bacon sandwiches."

Sherlock grinned. "I've found myself dreaming of apple sauce a lot more recently. I think this is the cause."

"Jumping in muddy puddles. Who in their right mind would encourage kids to jump in bloody puddles? Especially if you're in London where it's crowded and puddles are more oily than muddy."

"She's not actually very nice, is she? Peppa I mean. The Turnip's obviously perfection itself."

"No, she's actually a horrible child. Pig. I meant Peppa too. Well, mostly."

"I'm going to see hog-roasts in a whole new light in the future."

"Maybe that will be the finale. The whole ruddy, perfect two parents, perfect boy girl children, whole perfect family will get spit roasted and eaten."

"We can but hope."

"Sherlock, you should know, hours and hours of Peppa Pig are infinitely more bearable when there's someone else in the room who's also planning their demise. I'm just saying. Children's TV is slightly less soul destroying when I know you have to suffer it too. So don't worry about being hopeless."

Sherlock grinned at him. "Good. Thanks. I'll bear that in mind."


	57. Reading Week

**Check out me, fulfilling an old prompt! Also check out me, reverting to form and being utterly unable to find the damned prompt in order to properly thank the person who sent it.**

**Anyhow, someone asked about Scarlet coming back from Uni for a visit. If that was you, thank you. There was also the prompt of Scarlet being in trouble with the police. Again, thank you! **

**A little bit of bad language in this one (bad Scarlet!).**

Reading Week.

_Scarlet is Eighteen. It's reading week in her first term at Brighton._

Scarlet lugged her suitcase up the stairs, puffing slightly. She got as far as the kitchen where she dumped the suitcase along with a large rucksack she was carrying by the washing machine.

"Is there anything to eat?" she asked. "I'm starving."

She opened the fridge, squealed, and slammed it shut again.

"Arms! The fridge is full of arms!"

John was sitting at the kitchen table watching her, bemused.

"Hello, Dad!" he said. "Nice to see you, Dad! How are you, Dad?"

"_Dad_, there are fucking arms in the fucking fridge!"

"One, there's no need for that kind of language, so stop it. Two, there are two arms in the fridge and they're at the bottom so they don't, well, run onto stuff. So it's not _full _of arms."

"One, I'm an adult now, legally, and I can use the language I want, and two, there are _arms_ in the _fridge._"

"Oh, the arms!" Sherlock said rushing in. "You didn't touch them did you?" He moved her aside to check. "It's OK. They're fine."

"Marvellous," she replied. "I'm so glad."

He turned to look at her and smiled. "How are you?"

"Hungry."

"Is it particularly cold in Brighton at this time of year?" He glanced at her hair which was now light blue.

"Shut up," she told him. "I'll put the kettle on. Does anyone else want one?"

"Please," the other two chorused. She rolled her eyes but filled the kettle.

"Scarlet, has reading week changed since my day?" Sherlock asked her. "Is it a whole month now?"

"What?" she turned to look at him. He was looking pointedly at her luggage.

"Oh. Funny, ha ha. No, that needs washing."

"Yes, laundry is one of those things that fully grown, _legal_ adults do for themselves," John told her.

"Yes, I'm going to! I just wanted to use your machine!"

"And you decided that carrying it all to London on the train was more sensible than, I don't know, taking it across the road to the launderette?" Sherlock asked.

"I keep forgetting to save pound coins. Seriously, is there any food, or should I nip to the shop?"

"Sorry," John said, "I was going to have something ready for when you got here, but that plan relied on you texting me from the train like you said you would."

"Oh. Sorry, I forgot."

"Yes. I also thought it was fairly unlikely that you'd get here for ten like you said you would."

"Oh. I was asleep at ten. I would have woken up if you'd have called me though."

"I did. Twice. Your phone was off."

"Oh. Well, sorry. I'm here now." She finished making the tea and sat down with them. "Um, I was wondering… I've sort of told Serene that I'd go out with her tonight. You don't mind do you? I've barely seen her since she dropped out of college and I thought as I was back in town for a bit…"

"No, that's fine," John told her. "I didn't expect you to spend the whole week glued to us. I just wanted to see you for a bit. Besides, I'm out tonight too; it's Mike and Jane's anniversary thing."

"Oh!"

"No, Scarlet, you don't get to have any moral indignation. You've arranged something else too."

"But you didn't know that when you arranged your thing!"

"Scarlet, I told you about this weeks ago and you said it was fine. Don't you remember?"

"No. Sorry. And of course it's fine."

"Yes, it is."

"So, neither of you care that I'm in tonight, and apparently I'll be on my own?" Sherlock said.

Scarlet and John looked at him.

"Well, you can't come to Mike's thing. Jane's still livid with you about that time."

"Hmph."

"And you can't come out with me and Serene either, because… you can't."

Sherlock grinned. "It's OK. I happen to have a date with a pair of arms."

"Good," Scarlet said. "I didn't mean to arrange it for my first night home, it's just Serene's hard to get hold of at the moment and she actually told me where I might find her for once."

"It's fine, really."

"OK. Good," she rubbed the side of her mug with her thumb. "Er, does either of you have any cash you can lend me for tonight?"

"Yeah, I'll get some later," John told her.

Sherlock, however, was watching her intently.

"When you say, 'for tonight', do you actually mean 'for the rest of the month?'"

Scarlet blushed.

"A bit."

"Scarlet! It's only the fifth!" John told her. "I transferred money to you on the first!"

"I know! I'm sorry."

"Well what happened to it? Your rent's already paid up!"

"I know that too! It's just, I ran out of spending money last month so had to borrow some from a mate, and then I had to pay her back this month. I wouldn't ask but I haven't got any food for the month."

"Scarlet! You have to learn to budget your money better than that!" He sighed. "I'll give you a little extra this month, but you need to be more careful in future."

"OK, I will be! Don't nag!"

"I'm not nagging you! I'm lending, no I'm _giving_ you money. Could you please show a little gratitude?"

"Sorry. And I am grateful. But you're the one who kept on at me to go to University in the first place…"

"Scarlet!" John put his head in his hands.

Scarlet stared at her mug, pouting.

"Well, we've all got off to an excellent start, haven't we?" Sherlock said.

"It's your fault," Scarlet grumbled.

"Mine? How?"

"There are _arms_ in the _fridge_!"

John snorted. OK, I'm hungry too. Who's up for fish and chips. I'll pay for it."

"I'd love some," Sherlock said.

"Me too," Scarlet said. "Thank you, Dad. And I'm sorry for being a bit rubbish."

"It's fine. I'm glad you came home."

oOo

Sherlock was working in the kitchen that night. The rest of the flat was dark and quiet. It was heading towards midnight when Lestrade called him, making him jump.

"Lestrade! Is there a case? Because I was hoping to keep this week free…"

"No, no case, look, Sherlock, I've got Scarlet sitting outside my office."

"Why?"

"Because Sally recognised her when she was being brought in and diverted her to my office."

"She was picked up by the police? What for? No, wait, I'm coming in." He hung up and stood to get his coat. As soon as he had it on he called Lestrade back.

"Actually, tell me what she was picked up for."

"Are you not coming in?"

"Yes, but I don't want to wait. Is she going to be arrested?"

"No, I don't think so. I don't think she's actually done anything particularly wrong, but she was with another girl who was selling marijuana in a pub. Scarlet was a bit lippy with the constable who was arresting the dealer, so she was invited to come along too."

Sherlock swore. He got out onto the street and slammed the door behind him, looking for a cab.

"Look, don't worry too much, Sherlock. I haven't spoken with the arresting officer yet, but from what Sally said, he wasn't bothered that she was being brought up to me. He was more interested in the other one."

"That's not the point!"

"No, Sherlock, the point is she's a kid and she was being a bit stupid, but probably not doing anything actually illegal."

"Well she's spent enough of today explaining to everyone what an adult she is now, so maybe she should have the nice experience of being left in the cells overnight."

"Are you coming in or not?"

"Taxi! Yes. I'm on my way." He hung up again and got into his cab and sat silently all the way to Scotland Yard.

When he arrived he ignored the officers on the reception desk and made his way to Lestrade's office. Sally gave him a glance and he briefly wondered about thanking her for her intervention, but then he spotted Scarlet through the glass walls of Lestrade's office and went straight in.

Scarlet was sitting on a chair with a cup of coffee from the vending machine. Lestrade was completing some paperwork, or at least pretending to be.

Scarlet stood up and looked eager to leave when he came into the room, but he shut the door behind him.

"Well?" he asked. "Have a good night did you?"

"I didn't do anything. I was just in the pub, that's all."

"Did you know Serene was selling drugs?"

"It's not _drugs._ It's just…"

"I know the definition, Scarlet."

"I didn't know before I met up with her."

"But when you found out you stayed anyway." He looked at her eyes and her hands. "What did you take?"

"Nothing!"

He was surprised at the force of his reaction to the lie. He was breathless for a moment and he didn't know what to say to her. He glanced at Lestrade.

"Is she being charged?"

"No."

"OK. Come on then, let's go."

She looked at the floor as she followed him from the room. Neither of the said anything until they were in the back of another cab.

"I didn't do anything wrong!" Scarlet said.

Sherlock shook his head. "I don't think I want to hear about it right now, Scarlet."

"So you don't want to hear my side?"

"No. Not now. I'll hear it when you've slept and had something to eat and have thought about it for a bit."

"How long will you give me to do all of that?"

"I'll wait."

"And in the meantime, what? You'll just ignore me until I tell you something you want to hear? Besides, you're hardly the picture of innocence yourself, are you!"

He didn't react. She turned to stare out of the window.

oOo

It was late in the morning when John got up and staggered downstairs. Sherlock was working at the microscope looking at something that looked suspiciously like a fingernail but John decided he didn't want to look that closely.

"Do you want tea?"

"Mm. Please."

John shuffled past him to get to the kettle.

"Is Scarlet up?"

"Yep. She's in the shop already."

"Mm. What time did she get in?"

"About one."

John looked over at him. "Are you OK?"

Sherlock didn't look away from the microscope. "Yes. I'm fine."

"OK. Are the arms all that you hoped they would be?"

Sherlock smirked, but still didn't look away. "Yes. The arms are perfect thank you."

John stuck some bread into toast and finished the tea.

"Tea's on the table."

"Thanks."

John leant against the counter and stared at Sherlock's back. Eventually, Sherlock couldn't ignore him any more and he turned and picked up the tea.

"Thanks," he said again.

"I was thinking, perhaps we could all go out for Sunday lunch somewhere today. I'm not in the mood to cook."

"Oh, I can't, I'm sorry."

John frowned. "Got a case?"

"Well, the arms can't wait." He gave John a quick smile and turned back to his microscope.

John grabbed his toast and went through to turn the television on.

Half an hour later when he'd eaten, showered and dressed, he made his way downstairs. He banged on the shop door and waved when Scarlet looked up. She came over and opened the door for him.

"Good morning!" he said brightly.

"Hi." She turned and went back to her easel. He followed her.

"So, did you have a good night?"

"Yeah. Did you?"

"Yes thanks, it was lovely. It was a really nice meal."

"Good."

"Sorry, I should have brought you some tea down."

"I've got tea here." She glanced at him. "Did you want one?"

"I wouldn't say no."

He sat down in a chair and smiled at her. She put her paintbrush down and pulled her painting jumper off before heading into her store room.

"Are you ever intending to give that jumper back?" John asked her.

"No, I wasn't thinking of it. In fact, I could do with a replacement if you've got any other jumpers that you don't want that any more."

"Alas, I want all of my jumpers. I think I probably wanted that one too."

"I can wash it and give it back if you want."

"I was kidding, Scarlet."

"Oh. Here. Tea."

John took it. Scarlet sat down on the other chair and picked at her sleeve for a bit.

"So, what did you and Sherlock argue about?"

"Nothing."

"Really? Something must have happened, because he's extremely upset."

She shrugged. "He didn't say anything to me."

"Yes. That's how you'd know."

"Maybe he's just in a Sherlock mood."

"No, I don't think so." He paused but she didn't answer him. "Well, it's a shame, because I was hoping that you being home would be nice. For all of us I mean. Scarlet, I don't want you to feel you have to be here if you'd rather be back in Brighton."

"You want me to go back?"

"No, that's not what I said. I want you to be happy here, and you're not, and Sherlock's not, and I don't know why because neither of you is telling me."

Scarlet sighed. "Yesterday went a bit pear shaped. Serene was… Serene's gone a bit strange actually. It wasn't a great night, then we got into trouble and were picked up by the police, then one of Greg's colleagues recognised me so he got involved and he called Sherlock to come and pick me up, and Sherlock was a bit pissed off."

John had paused with his cup half way to his mouth. He put it down again.

"Yeah, well I can see why he might have found that annoying."

"It was an accident."

"In the sense that…"

"In the sense that I don't think she meant to get caught."

"What was she doing?"

"Selling… some stuff."

"Why didn't you tell the police it was nothing to do with you?"

"Because I was… I didn't. I got…" She stopped and sighed.

"What?"

"I might have got a bit mouthy."

"Oh. Jolly good."

"I didn't mean to!"

"Oh come on, Scarlet. How do you think it feels to Sherlock knowing that you respect his friends and colleagues that little?"

"_He_ doesn't respect them!"

"Do you really think that? You do understand the difference between what he says and what he does, don't you? And I think if you were to ask the people who work at the Met, they might suggest that he's earned the right to argue back at them. Have you?"

"No! I do understand all of that! And I do respect the police! And that's not what I meant! I just… I was a bit drunk and I was being silly."

"Yeah, I bet you were."

She sighed again. "I'm sorry. It's just it's weird being back here. It's strange and I have to be all 'little girl Scarlet' again and behave in a certain way and be all nice for my Dad and his friends and it's weird."

John stared at her. "No you don't. You don't have to behave in a certain way at all!"

She snorted. "You don't even like it when I swear!"

"No, I don't! It doesn't mean that you have to stop though. You can choose to use bad language in front of whomever you want. You can choose to be awkward and difficult with the police if you think it's right to do so, and you can choose to leave your mate in a cell in the police station while you leave, and you can choose to have absolutely no responsibility for anything if that's the sort of person that you want to be, Scarlet. I'm sad about it, because I like to think that you're _not_ that sort of person and it does make me wonder if I raised you poorly, but if you are, and I'm still going to be ruddy pleased when you show up from Uni to spend a few days with us."

He sighed and she stubbornly picked at her sleeve again.

"Scarlet, I'm going to love you no matter what, and I'm relatively sure that there's nothing you could do that would change that. But it might be worth remembering that Sherlock's love for you isn't quite so unconditional. He's not obliged to you in any way."

She shifted in her seat a bit. "OK. I'm sorry."

He nodded. "Good. I think he'd be pleased to know that."

"Yeah."

"Well, I'll leave you alone. I imagine that reading week comes with some sort of obligation for you to, well, read."

"Mm. It's more painting for me."

"Oh, what a hard life you lead."

She smirked. He got as far as opening the door.

"Dad…"

"Mm?"

"I did something really stupid last night."

He shut the door again and looked at her.

"Serene was selling this stuff, pot mostly, but some other stuff. She was… she said… OK, she didn't say much but I suddenly felt I had to prove something to her, so she and I smoked a joint together, and I'm… well, I don't care much about that actually, but when Sherlock came to pick me up I lied to him about it. And I care about that."

John shook his head. "You know you can't lie to Sherlock."

"I know."

"And you know about him and drugs. You know why he doesn't want you messing about with all of that. It scares him."

"Yes, I know. That's why I lied."

"Well lying wouldn't work, Scarlet."

"No. So what do I do now?"

"Well, this is one of those things that might be up to you, Scarlet. The days of me setting a punishment for you are long gone."

"Oh." She looked at him for a moment. "Well in my new adult life, can I still ask my Dad for advice when I screw up?"

John smiled and came back over to her and put his hands on her shoulder. "OK, well my advice would be this; don't take drugs and then lie to Sherlock about it."

"Great. Helpful."

He smiled. "It's really not hard, Scarlet. Have a think about the people involved in last night, and work out what you want to happen next with each one of them. Then make that happen." He kissed her on the forehead and smiled. "I have no idea what to do for lunch, so come up when you get hungry and we'll discuss it then."

"What, the drugs thing?"

"No, we've just had that discussion. The food thing."

"Oh."

He left her alone. She didn't lock the shop but went to wash up instead. A few minutes later she left, locked the door and went upstairs.

She found Sherlock still working at his microscope. He didn't acknowledge her when she came in.

"Is that a fingernail?"

"Yes."

She shivered. She looked around the kitchen. "Is the experiment going well?"

"Yes. Thank you." He didn't look at her.

She shuffled her feet. "Sherlock, I'm sorry about last night. It was stupid and I certainly didn't mean for you to get called out to come and get me. But thank you for doing that anyway."

He looked at her and shrugged slightly. "You're welcome."

"I'd smoked a joint."

"I know."

"Well, I'm sorry I lied to you about it."

"Thank you."

They looked at each other for a while.

"Is that it?" Sherlock asked.

Scarlet looked at her feet for a moment before looking up at him again.

"No, that's not it." She sighed. "OK, I want you to know it's not the first time I've tried pot. I had some at uni too, but I didn't like it then, it just made me throw up, so it was a bit of a waste of time. Yesterday it was different. It wasn't so bad. So I'm not going to tell you I'll never take it again, because that would be a stupid promise to make. But I do know that going out and getting really drunk and stoned is an expensive habit, and I need to be more careful with money, so it's probably not going to happen much in the future. And I'm fairly sure I don't want or need to try anything stronger. Again, I can't promise you anything, but I can tell you that I'm going to be vary careful with it all."

He stared at her for a while. "OK, well that sounds reasonable and well thought out of you."

"Yeah."

"It's interesting to me that you feel that the only reason not to get drunk and take drugs is because of the money. It makes me wonder if, when you're rich, you'll go out partying all the time."

"Oh. I think I sort of assumed I'll never be that rich. I guess I'll keep monitoring the situation. There are probably some health aspects of it that I also need to think about."

"Mm. Maybe there are." He nodded at her for a moment but then looked back at his microscope.

"What I'm saying is, I can't promise you!"

He looked back at her. "I'm not asking you to."

"OK. Well there was something else too. I was wondering if you could find out the name of the policeman who took me and Serene in yesterday. I was rude to him and I need to apologise. There was no excuse for that and I actually can promise you that I won't do that again. Ever."

Sherlock smiled and nodded. "I'll ask Greg later. Though you don't have to promise never to do it again. The police aren't all perfect and you shouldn't be afraid to question them when necessary."

"Either way, there's no need to be rude. You can question people without being rude." She looked at him. "Well, I can anyway. There was something else too."

"Mm?"

"Advice really."

Sherlock frowned. "I'm not the best person for advice."

"You might be with this. I don't know what to do about Serene."

"What about her?"

"She's messed up. She's all over the place at the moment, and I know her Mum isn't interested. She hasn't been home for a while, and she's staying in a house with people who don't care about her. I don't know if she's an addict or whatever but she takes drugs regularly, I know she sells and supplies stuff too, and I know she's into stealing stuff too, I don't know what or how bad it is but she didn't make a secret about it. Well, not to me, she's probably not saying much to the police."

"Why do you care?"

"Because she's a mate."

"What do you want me to do?"

Scarlet looked at him. "That's just it, I don't know. I don't know what can be done or what should be done, or whether Serene deserves more help than someone else. I just know that she's a mate and she's in trouble. And I remember her as a kid and it doesn't seem fair."

"What's not fair?"

"Well, I got landed with people who care what happens to me, and she didn't."

Sherlock sat back on his stool folded his arms. After thinking for a moment, he sighed. "I don't know what can be done either. Scarlet, sometimes there are people who just can't be helped. And that's not always about who their parents are or what's happened to them in life, it's just who they are. You can ask your Dad about your Aunt Harry if you want an example."

She sighed and nodded. "It's a bit miserable though. And I'm not sure that means that we shouldn't try."

"Perhaps. I just want to know you're protecting yourself. There's no point killing yourself for someone who can't be bothered. You can't live Serene's life for her, you can't tell her what to do in every situation, you can't take responsibility for what goes on with her… what? Why are you smiling?"

"Well, Dad just indicated I could do with taking more responsibility."

"Yes, well, I'm not sure he meant you should take on an eighteen year old dependant. Besides, it wouldn't do her much good. She has to be able to cope in the real world on her own, and she needs to decide the best way for her to do that."

"So I just walk away and leave her in a cell?"

"No. But it might be wise not to take too much direct involvement."

"Is there a halfway point?"

"I don't know. Sorry, I told you I wasn't the best person for advice. I'll ask Lestrade though and find out what sort of options she has. OK?"

"OK. Thank you."

He nodded and went back to his microscope. She watched him for a while. After a minute or so, he looked back up at her and frowned. She looked deeply worried.

"Sherlock, I really am sorry for last night!"

"I know."

"I won't ever do it again! And I won't ever take drugs again! I promise you I won't! Please don't give up on me!"

She suddenly rushed at him and hugged him tightly. He hugged her back.

"I'm not going to give up on you! I was talking about you and Serene, not me and you!"

"I don't want you to give up on me, OK!"

He frowned and pushed her away to look at her. "I never would, Scarlet! I wouldn't ever! I was so, _so_ grateful to get you back after Moriarty! So grateful! I can't imagine ever walking away from you from my own free will!"

She looked like she was going to cry so he hugged her again.

"It's just weird!" she said. "Being a grown up is hard! Things were so much easier when someone else was making my decisions for me and telling me what to do! Now I keep screwing up."

Sherlock snorted. "Interesting. I seem to remember you didn't like being told what to do when it was actually happening."

She laughed a bit but didn't let go of him.

"Look, if it helps at all, I think you've actually managed yourself really well so far. You're eighteen, and your first skirmish with the police was last night and you didn't even do anything illegal. And despite all the talk of terrible teenagers, from my recollection, there's been precisely one occasion when you stayed out and we were worried, and you apologised for that too, and you never did it again. So you've mismanaged your money slightly, but you've learned from it and you're aiming to resolve it. Oh, and for your information, you're not the first Watson I've known to mismanage their monthly budget. Nobody expects you to be perfect all the time and to never get something wrong or make a mistake, but you've actually been fairly brilliant. I think you're doing fine."

"Hm," she said still resting against his shoulder. "Is it possible you're looking at my character through rose tinted glasses?"

He smiled. "Perhaps a little. But I think I'm also comparing you to some of the people I've known in my life. And indeed, _me._ You're much better than I was at your age."

"Mm. Good." She paused him for a moment, just enjoying being held up. "Although in a lot of ways, being better than you might be seen as being damned by faint praise."

He laughed and pushed her away. "OK, let's start reading week again, shall we? Do you want to have a look at this fingernail?"

She shuddered again. "God, no. I'll cook the dinner though. Dad should have an afternoon off."

"Agreed. I'll lend you the money for ingredients."

"Thanks. But when you say _lend_…"

"Fine, OK, _give._"


	58. A Day Off

**Anna Keye – Just wanted to say thank you for reviewing (I can't PM you). Also, thank you for prompting; 'more Turnip chapters'. I hope this fits the bill.**

**Apologies in advance for the length of this one. Sorry. It suffered from me enjoying each part of it so much that I didn't know what to cut.**

A Day Off

_Scarlet is three. This is a couple of days after Concussion._

"He did it."

"Could you stop doing that!"

"Why? He did it. Now can we turn over and watch something else?"

"No! I want to watch this!"

"But I just told you who did it!"

"That's not the point of watching it!"

"So what is the point?"

"The point is… The point is enjoying the interaction between the characters while they're working out who did it. The crime and the mystery are secondary."

"That's just stupid. The crime is clearly central to the plot and no mystery is ever, ever secondary. John, have I taught you nothing?"

"No. Now shut up and let me watch."

"It's ridiculous, they're all completely clueless, and they're going to… oh, wait a minute."

"What."

"It's that blonde woman again."

"So? She happens to have a minor role in this series."

"Look, John, you can just say, 'Sherlock, I want to watch this because it's got that blonde woman with the nice behind in it, and I like to watch her'."

"Yeah, and if I said that, you would say…"

"I'd say, 'don't be ridiculous, I'm not wasting an hour of my life so you can fantasize about'…"

They were interrupted by screaming from upstairs. John was immediately up and running up the stairs. Sherlock waited a minute but Scarlet didn't seem to be calming down, so he went up too. He found her standing on her bed, looking wild and confused. John was uttering soothing sounds but she wouldn't let him get close without screaming some more.

"What's happened to her?" Sherlock asked.

"Nothing, she's fine."

"Well clearly she's…"

"Shut up, and go away!"

Sherlock was surprised, but he turned and walked away anyway. He waited downstairs and gradually he heard Scarlet's screams grow quieter. After a few minutes of quiet John came downstairs again. He flicked the TV off and sat down next to Sherlock.

"Sorry. I didn't need to snap. I don't like people watching."

"It's fine. Was it a nightmare?"

"Sort off. Night terrors. She doesn't know what's happening, she can't wake up, she's just all out terrified. It's horrible."

"It doesn't sound like a joy."

"No. Well, at least she won't remember it tomorrow." He started biting on his thumbnail until he noticed Sherlock watching him. He threw him the remote. "Here, find something to watch."

Sherlock flicked the TV on again but put the remote aside. "What caused it?"

"I don't know. She doesn't often have them. I'd prefer she didn't have them at all, and I hate her pushing me away like that."

"But she didn't do it deliberately."

"No, I know, but it still horrible to see her scared when I can't help. And somewhat selfishly it doesn't bode well for a good night's sleep. I can almost guarantee she'll be in my room in a couple of hours and will spend the night kicking me in the kidneys." He ground the heels of his hands into his eyes and groaned. "Hell! I just want one decent night's sleep!"

Sherlock was quiet for a moment. He knew that he had caused most of John's sleeplessness this particular week. Not just the concussion either, which Sherlock could vaguely justify as technically it was John's choice to get up and check on him regularly. But the night before that, he'd woken him by being a little vigorous while practising the violin, and the night before that he had woken him at three by burning himself and shouting loudly about it. The night before that a car alarm had gone off which had woken Scarlet and she'd decided against going back to sleep.

While technically the car alarm wasn't his fault either, he remembered how these periods of nothing but broken sleep did affect John's mood, and he did accept that he was responsible for some of it.

"Look, if she wakes up tonight, why don't you send her into my room and she can kick me in the kidneys all night."

"Thanks, but it's fine. I've got it."

"Is this one of those things where you get all 'she's my child, she's my choice' and refuse help that's offered because you're stubborn and stupid?"

John snorted. "No, it's not. Though she is my child and she is my choice."

"Yes but…"

"Yes but it's just not practical. At least between the kickings she will go to sleep in my bed. In yours, she'll assume it's playtime and will start demanding aeroplanes and using you as a human trampoline. It's a nice offer, but it wouldn't work."

"Fine, I'll have her tomorrow then. You can stay in bed. Or I'll take her out somewhere and you can just have the day off."

"Hah, again it's a lovely thought, but we've got a busy day tomorrow."

"Doing what?"

"Doing stuff. We have stuff to do. We can't just stop."

"I don't understand why. She's three, she's hardly responsible for anything and you can occasionally stop."

"I know, but I need to take her to buy new shoes before we do anything else because she ate her old ones."

"She _ate_ them?"

"She was in here watching a film and chewing on the strap of her shoe until she chewed it right off. I should have noticed something was going on because she wasn't talking, but I was relishing the quiet a bit."

"Mm. Well I can take her out and buy her shoes. How hard can it be?"

"It can be very, very hard, Sherlock."

"I'm more than capable. Is that it?"

"No, I then have to take her to Jessica's party at three, but before I can do that I need take her to buy a birthday present for Jessica, and a new party dress to wear to the party."

"Doesn't she have a party dress?"

"She did, but she grew out of it."

"Well fine, I'll take her out in the morning, I'll buy shoes, a dress and a present. I'll bring her back here so you can feed her, because we both know I can't manage that part, and then I'll take her to the party."

"Sherlock, the party's at a soft play centre."

"So?"

"So, they can be a bit intense."

"It's a soft play centre, John, it's not a bear pit."

"Mm. When you hear the words 'soft play centre', Sherlock, what do you imagine?"

"A place where children are softly playing."

"Mm. And, just out of interest, what do you imagine they're playing with?"

"I don't know. Soft things. Soft toys! It sounds perfectly civilised to me!"

They heard footsteps upstairs and they both looked towards the stairs.

"Daddy? Daddy, where are you?" Scarlet called. She started to cry.

"I'm going up," John said. "Might as well get a head start on the not sleeping."

"OK. See you in the morning."

oOo

Sherlock woke up the next morning when a small finger jabbed him in the eye.

"Hngggff."

"Sherlock, Daddy says I should wake you up so you can take me shopping."

"'K. What time is it?"

"It's morning time!"

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at the clock.

"It's seven minutes past six, Turnip. That's not quite morning time yet."

"But Daddy said…"

"Do you want to get in my bed for snuggles?"

"Yes!"

She scrambled in next to him and he shuffled over a bit. He rolled over onto his stomach and went back to sleep for a few seconds.

"Sherlock, we need a cat."

"Mm."

"Or two cats."

"Mm."

"We could call them Ben and Holly. I like Ben and Holly."

"Mm."

"Can we play aeroplanes?"

"No. Go to sleep for a bit."

She shuffled down into the bed and went quiet. Sherlock risked opening his eyes and he felt quite smug that she'd put her thumb in her mouth and was twisting her hair in her fingers. He smiled at her and wrapped an arm around her. She felt warm and soft. He went back to sleep.

A few seconds later he woke up again because Scarlet had wriggled out from under his arm and climbed onto his back.

"Can we play horsies?

"No. OK. Damn it. Do you want breakfast?"

"Yes."

"Right then. Let's get up." He went back to sleep.

"Can I have cheese?"

He woke up and pushed himself up. She slid down his back and laughed.

"You were a slide!"

"OK. Lets get up."

She leapt onto him so he carried her away muttering about her perfectly good pair of legs. He had a quick look in John's room on the way past. It was dark and John was snoring. It wasn't his fake snore.

"I need a wee," Scarlet said.

"You're wearing your night nappy."

"But it's not night time."

Sherlock sighed. "OK." He put her down in the bathroom. "You sort yourself out. I'm going to make coffee."

"OK."

He wandered downstairs and headed into the kitchen. He watched the kettle boil and blinked sleepily as he poured it over the coffee. A tiny, nagging voice at the back of his mind wondered what on earth could be taking Scarlet so long, but he ignored it. Just as it was beginning to turn into an actual doubt, he heard her walking down the stairs. She appeared wearing just her pyjama top, which was soaking wet.

"What happened to you?" he asked.

"I washed!" She spied the cafetiere. "Can I push it down?" She climbed onto the table and grabbed at it.

"Careful, Turnip, it's hot!" He held it steady for her and pressed it, going slightly cross-eyed with effort.

"There. It's done!"

He smiled. "Thank you, Turnip. Do you want toast?"

"I want porridge."

"Mm. Let's put it this way. I can make you toast, and I can't make you porridge, so do you want toast?"

"I want porridge."

"OK, let's try again. What do you want on your toast?"

"Porridge."

"I'm making you some toast."

They heard the sound of John coming down the stairs. He appeared, looking sleepy but happy.

"You should have stayed in bed," Sherlock told him.

"I did! Six thirty is a lie-in for me! Besides, I'll go back to bed in a minute but I thought I'd better come and make her porridge."

"She can manage with toast for one day, John."

"A normal day, yes, but even your worst enemy wouldn't send you shopping with Scarlet when her blood sugar's a bit low. She'll eat porridge and toast and then she might be vaguely normal until eleven."

"What happens at eleven?"

"My advise to you would be that you find her some food at eleven. What happened to your top, Scarlet?"

"I washed! All by myself!"

John turned and dashed up to the bathroom. He returned a few minutes later.

"It's OK. It wasn't too bad."

"What wasn't?"

"The bathroom. It's not a good idea to leave her alone in the bathroom. She likes water and waterfalls and how water sounds when it hits the floor."

"Oh. I didn't know."

"Though sometime's it's almost as bad when you've just had a shower. Right, porridge." He started cooking. "Are you sure about today, Sherlock?"

"Yes, of course! It's fine!"

"Do you want me to write anything down for you?"

"No. I can manage, John."

"OK. Well the bag is just in the hallway."

"What bag? She doesn't need a changing bag any more, she's not a baby."

"I'm a big girl!"

"That's true, but I still find it's a good idea to take spare clothes and hankies and wet-wipes with me when we're going anywhere."

"You're such a fuss pot, John! Finish the porridge and go back to bed."

"OK." He stirred the porridge for a bit. "So where were you thinking of going for shoes?"

"John, that's really pass…" he stopped and thought about this. "OK, where would you recommend?"

"Clark's. You need to go to one that does children's fittings though. And I'd go early because they fill up fairly quickly on a weekend. But it is up to you."

"I suspect it isn't."

John grinned at him. "I am fine to do all of this, you know."

"I know! So am I! I'm just as capable of managing a three year old as you are!"

"OK then. Here you go, Scarlet. Porridge. I'm going to take my coffee and computer back to bed. See you both later. And be good for Sherlock, Scarlet." He kissed her on the top of her head.

"I'm always good!" she said through a mouthful of porridge.

"We'll be fine!" Sherlock insisted. He glared until John took the hint and went back upstairs.

oOo

Sherlock had fed Scarlet, washed her again, dressed her and got her into the cab successfully and he allowed himself a very quiet triumph. It was true that all of it had taken far, far longer than he'd anticipated, and he wasn't sure that John would be completely satisfied that one of her shoes was sellotaped to her foot, but they were underway and in the cab.

"Sherlock, I need a wee," Scarlet told him.

"Well, can you wait?"

"No."

"No, look, you'll have to hold it. We won't be long in the cab."

"If she wets the seat, you'll have to pay for a valet service," the cabbie told him.

"She won't!" he snapped. "Please don't," he said quietly to Scarlet.

"Don't what?"

"It doesn't matter. Just sit still and hold on for a bit."

"Hold on to what?"

Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes. It was at this point he realised he'd left the bag at home. He silently prayed to the god he didn't believe in that she wouldn't wet herself.

She didn't, and the journey came to an end. He got her out of the cab and paid. Scarlet was hopping on the pavement. He looked up and down the road and spotted a McDonald's.

"Right, quick march!" he said. "Off we go!"

They were stopped outside the toilets by a teenager in a baseball cap brandishing a mop.

"Sorry, the toilet's are for customer's only!"

Sherlock glared. "Well she's three, so she can either go into the toilets or she can wee on the floor and you can mop it up afterwards. It's up to you."

The assistant wandered away. Sherlock held the door open for Scarlet and she stared at him.

"What?" he asked.

"Daddy usually comes in with me."

"Well I can't go into the ladies."

They stared at each other for a while longer, until Sherlock took her by the hand and led her into the gents. She sat on the toilet and looked at him.

"I want burger and chips."

"Well you can't have burger and chips. It's…" he checked his watch. "It's ten in the morning. You can't have burgers and chips at ten in the morning! Actually it's getting late, can you hurry up?"

"I've finished."

"Good." He supervised her washing her hands and then they were on their way again.

She came to a stop a few yards down the road.

"What is it now?" Sherlock asked her.

"My shoe came off!" She held it up.

"OK, shoulders." He hoisted her up. "But let's get a move on now. We've got a lot to do before the party."

"What party?"

"Jessica's party. It's this afternoon."

She started kicking her legs with excitement. "Will there be balloons?"

"I don't know."

"And dancing?"

"I don't know."

"And millions of cake?"

"I don't know. Stop kicking me."

Clark's was calm and peaceful and serene inside, but he was alarmed at the lack of children's shoes.

"Can I help you sir?"

"I need new shoes for her."

"Children's are upstairs. There's a lift."

He nodded his thanks and headed into the lift. Scarlet's head was knocked against the top of the door, and she howled.

"I'm sorry!" Sherlock said desperately, putting her down. "Let me see! OK, there's no red mark. I think it was just a little bump."

She continued wailing. As the lift door opened her wails were engulfed by the noise and mayhem in the children's department. Sherlock backed further into the lift.

Scarlet had brightened up though, and she dashed towards a brightly coloured display.

"I like this one! And this one! And this one!" she picked up the shoes as she went along.

"No, Turnip, put them down! Do try not to grab everything from the shelf!"

She dropped them into a pile on the floor and dashed off to climb onto a bright purple bench. Sherlock put the shoes back haphazardly. He noticed that there was some sort of queuing system involving tickets and an LED counter. He got himself a ticket and felt that he was getting back in control. His ticket was 56, and the LED read 44. He sighed.

He also realised that Scarlet was no longer on the purple bench.

He found her sitting between identical twin girls and she'd found a lollypop from somewhere. He reclaimed her.

"I'm bored!" she whined. "Can we go now?"

"No. We have to do this, you can't walk anywhere if you haven't got shoes."

"But it's booooooring."

"Well, maybe you should have thought about that before you ate the last pair."

She sneezed a mouthful of sugar at him. He blinked for a moment. Scarlet was suddenly filthy and he couldn't quite work out how. He rooted around in his pocket for his handkerchief.

"Nooooo! Don't clean me!" she howled.

He dabbed at her a bit until she threw herself dramatically down onto the floor.

"Noooooo!"

He calculated the benefits of cleaning her against leaving her alone. He wiped her face and it turned out she didn't care.

"Turnip, your lolly's gone onto the floor. You'll have to throw it away now."

She cared about that and she wailed again.

"No, it's fluffy now! You can't eat that, your Dad would kill me." He removed it from her sticky grasp and looked around for a bin. Finding none, he wrapped it in the handkerchief and put it into his pocket.

Scarlet cried and he sat down on the floor next to her. "Turnip, please don't cry!" he said, feeling it was all a bit pointless.

She stopped though, and jumped up and ran away. He found her again next to a big stand of very shiny shoes. The display had pictures of puppies on it and the lettering was all in pink.

"I want these ones!" she said, holding up a shoe. It was completely covered in sequins.

"I'm not sure that's practical," he told her.

"Look, you get face paintings with it!"

He looked at the display again. "Really? Who in their right mind would give make-up away with shoes that are designed for pre-teens? That's insane!"

"I want these ones!" Scarlet said again. She held up a bright red shoe. It was shiny and had fake jewels stuck onto it.

"Er… I think…"

"Excuse me sir, are you number 56?" an assistant asked.

"Yes! I am!" He was overwhelmed with relief and had to fight the urge to hug her. "Scarlet needs new shoes!"

"I like these ones!" Scarlet said. She held up two different shoes.

"Oh they are lovely, aren't they!" She caught the look on Sherlock face. "I'm not sure they come in your size though. Shall we measure you and see what pretty shoes we can find for you?"

She took her by the hand (which Sherlock thought was quite brave) and she led her to a chair. Scarlet behaved remarkably well while she was being measured.

"Right, Dad, she's an 8 and a half F in her left foot, and an 8F in her right foot. Did you see anything particular you liked, or should I just bring a selection in her size."

It had taken Sherlock a moment to realise she was talking to him. "Er, yes, do that."

She disappeared off and Scarlet sat perfectly still and swung her head while she waited.

"Sherlock?"

"Mm?"

"I love you!"

"Thank you. I love you too, Turnip." He smiled at her as she sat there. He thought that occasionally, if you got her at the right moment, she was about as perfect an angel as you could ever wish for.

She sneezed again and suddenly her face was covered with snot.

Sherlock rooted for his handkerchief again, but found it still had the sticky lolly in it. He looked around randomly but a clean handkerchief didn't suddenly appear.

"OK, er, here…" he pulled up the bottom of her t-shirt and wiped her face on it. "Don't tell your Dad," he told her.

"I'm not allowed secrets from Dad. I promised him."

"No. And you're a rubbish secret keeper too."

"Yes."

"Well it's not the end of the world. Let's just hope he doesn't notice."

The assistant came back with a stack of boxes. She opened them all, displaying five sets of perfectly lovely children's shoes.

"I want the pink ones!" Scarlet said.

"Of course you do," Sherlock muttered.

"Shall we try them on you then?" He watched as the assistant put them on Scarlet's feet, prodded, measured, felt them for fit and made Scarlet walk a few steps in them.

"Look, Sherlock! They've got lights!"

"Yes. Why do they have lights?"

"Some of them do," the assistant shrugged. "Children quite like it."

"Huh. Right, can we go now?"

"Of course. I take it you want her to wear them out?"

"Well I'd like them to last… oh, you meant she should keep them on her on her feet for now. Yes. Please."

Scarlet continued jumping and walking while looking at her feet. Sherlock went to pay for them.

"Do you want this shoe protector?" She held up an aerosol spray.

"What does it do?"

"It just prolongs the life of the shoes."

"Will it stop her eating them?"

"Eating them?"

"Actually, as it's probably best not ingested, I won't take the risk. Just the shoes." He handed her his credit card. "Where can I buy a child's party dress?"

"You could try John Lewis across the road."

"Marvellous, thank you. You know, my housemate told me I'd never be able to manage all of this!" He gathered Scarlet up and they left.

Scarlet continued jumping and staring at her new shoes as they headed back out and across the street.

She stopped suddenly and he stopped and looked down at her.

"I need a wee," she said.

"That's not possible! You just had a wee and you haven't had a drink since!" He thought about this for a second. "Actually, you haven't had a drink for a while. Are you thirsty?"

"Sherlock, I'm thirsty!" she whined.

"Yes, good. And it's getting to the time when you turn into a gremlin if you haven't eaten." He looked up at the huge shop in front of him and noticed it boasted both toilets and a café. He smiled at her. "I bet your Dad never thought of doing everything in one shop! They probably even have toys!"

"Toys? For me?"

A brilliant idea occurred to him.

"Turnip, we're going to make something called a deal. A deal is this; you do something that I want, and in return I'll do something that you want. So in this case, if you behave really well while we're having our snack, and while we're buying your dress, in return, I'll let you choose a toy for yourself from this shop."

She stared at him.

"What?"

"Be good, and there'll be a toy in it for you."

"A toy for me?"

"Yes. If you're good."

"Can I have a princess doll?"

"If you're good."

She suddenly looked panicked.

"I'm weeing!"

"No!" Sherlock picked her up and held her under his arm and he dashed into the shop looking for a sign to the toilets.

"Look! An elephant!" She squealed.

"Yes, I'm looking for the toilet's now!"

"But it's an elephant in a shop!"

He glanced over. "It's a pretend one!"

"Can we see it?"

"No, we're looking for a toilet!"

He was overheard. "Just through that door, Sir, and up the stairs."

He yelled his thanks as he hurried past. It was a ladies but Sherlock pushed his way in regardless, and there was a number of startled exclamations.

"She's three! Deal with it!" he snapped.

Nobody commented. He plonked Scarlet down.

"I don't need a wee any more."

Her trousers were quite damp and he closed his eyes for a moment. He took a breath and he opened his eyes again.

"OK, slight change of plan. We're going to go to the clothes section and buy you a new t-shirt, trousers and knickers. Then we'll put them on you, and we'll go and get a drink and a bite to eat, then we'll go and find party dress and a present for Jessica. Then we'll wave at Daddy from the cab while going straight to the party."

"OK."

"OK."

"Can I still get a toy?"

She looked at him with her huge, blue eyes and smiled.

He melted. He decided that the accident was probably more his fault than hers and it could have been much worse. Then he decided he didn't like that thought, so he stopped thinking about it.

"Yes, you can if you're still good for the rest of the time."

"Thank you, Sherlock."

"Come on then." He washed her hands and took her back into the shop.

They found the children's clothing department, and she efficiently chose a t-shirt with a picture of a cat on it and a pack of knickers with flowers, and he found a pair of cheap but practical jeans. They bought the items and he took her back into the stairwell to change her. He glanced at his watch again.

"That only took ten minutes, Turnip! We're getting good at this! You know what this is?"

"What?"

"Good teamwork!" he hi-fived her and she grinned. "Right then. Brilliant. Let's go and find some food."

She flopped over suddenly and he caught her, alarmed. "I'm so hungry I might just die!" she wailed.

"Good dramatics there, Turnip. Shall I carry you to the café?"

"Yes."

"OK then. Don't wee again."

He picked her up and carried her away. They found the café and Sherlock bought Scarlet a sandwich, a cake and an orange juice and he ordered two large coffees for himself. He allowed himself half a minute of having his eyes closed while Scarlet opened her sandwich and picked out the filling.

"Sherlock, I think this shop is great!"

"Good. I'm pleased."

"It's got an elephant in it!"

"Yes, downstairs."

"Why has it got an elephant in it?"

"I don't know. It must be a promotion."

"It's got food, and drinks, and toilets and dresses and shoes…"

"Yes it has."

"I love my new shoes!"

"Good."

"They've got fairies on them! Look!" She put one of her feet onto the table and pointed.

He opened his eyes and smiled at her.

"Turnip, I think I need a hug," he told her.

Scarlet wriggled off her chair, skipped around the table, climbed onto his knee and wrapped her arms around his neck.

He hugged her back.

"I love you, Sherlock," she reminded him.

"I love you too," he said. He noticed he was being watched and smiled at by a number of people. Mostly women. He blushed slightly and let her go. "Go and eat your sandwich up, Turnip."

She kissed him first, but then skipped back around the table and got on with her lunch. He drank his coffee as she finished her meal.

"Can we go and see the elephant now?" she asked when she'd finished.

"No, we've got a dress to buy. We're making up time though now, so maybe after we've bought the other things we can."

"But I want to see it now!" she shouted.

"No! I thought feeding you prevented this sort of behaviour!"

"I want to see the elephant!"

"And I've said later!"

"No! It's never later! I want to see it now!"

"Scarlet, do you remember you're getting a toy if you behave nicely?"

"Yes."

"Do you think shouting at me is good behaviour?"

She stuck her bottom lip out and folded her arms.

"Right. Let's go and buy you a dress."

She dragged her feet as she walked behind him but cheered up again as they got to the dresses.

"What about this one?" He held up a red dress with white polka dots on it.

"It's a little bit nice," she told him.

"Well, it's a dress, and we have to buy a dress…"

She walked away. He put the dress back on the rack and followed her.

"What about this one?" he asked.

"It's green," she replied.

He couldn't tell whether this was a good thing, a bad thing, or just a statement of fact.

He followed her again and noticed that she did seem to be paying attention to the selection. Occasionally she paused, as if considering the cut and the detailing on a certain item, before frowning and moving on.

Her face suddenly lit up and she darted off.

"I like this one!" she told him.

"Of course you do," he replied. It was pink, lacy and had more sequins and bows than seemed quite right.

"It's _beautiful_!" she said.

"OK, I don't care. A dress is a dress." He started looking through the railing for one in her size. "I'm assuming this is years…" he muttered. "There aren't any that say three. Should we ask someone, or just get a four. What do you think?"

He looked down, but Scarlet was nowhere to be seen. He looked at the other side of the clothes-rack. She wasn't there either. He dashed about a bit but he couldn't see her anywhere.

He stopped trying to be calm and started running and calling for her. He pushed clothes aside to check she hadn't crawled underneath them. He dropped the dress and the shopping onto the floor. He stood still and grabbed hold of his hair.

"Turnip! Turnip!" he yelled.

"Excuse me, Sir, is everything OK?"

He looked down into the face of a man who's name-badge proudly stated 'Martin Skieff. Children's Clothing Manager.'

"No, everything is not! Turnip has gone!"

"And turnip is…"

"Scarlet! She's Scarlet but I call her Turnip and she's not here! She's my… my…" the phrase 'flat-mate's daughter' flittered through his head. "She's my child."

"OK, how old is she?"

"She's three."

"Do you remember what she was wearing?"

"A cat t-shirt and a pair of jeans." He wished he'd chosen something more distinctive.

"OK, I'll put a call out. Could you come with me?"

"Wait!" Sherlock suddenly shouted. "She's gone to look at that bloody elephant!" he set off at a run. Martin picked up the dress and the bag and hurried after him. Sherlock vaulted over the railing onto the escalator and shoved people aside as he ran down it. He sped through the make-up department until he got to the perfumes where there was a large, fake elephant and Scarlet sat cross-legged underneath it.

"… and you can live in my bedroom, and I will call you Catherine! And when we get cats they will be your sisters! And…"

Sherlock almost fell over with the weight of sheer relief.

"Scarlet!"

She looked at him.

"Scarlet," he said again. She crawled out to him and he picked her up. Holding her at arm's length he looked at her sternly. "Turnip, don't ever, ever run away from me again! Never, ever, ever!" He hugged her.

She started to cry. "But you said!"

"No, Scarlet, you can't run away from me! It's very, very naughty!"

"But you said after we got the dress we could look at the elephant! And we gotted the dress!"

"Yes but…"

"You said!"

"OK, it's OK. All right. I'm just glad to get you back."

"Is everything all right now, Sir?" Martin asked him.

"Yes, yes thank you." Sherlock was surprised about how shaken he felt. "Thank you for your help."

"No problem. Are you sure you don't want to sit down and have a glass of water?"

"No. No I'm fine. I think I'm going to take her home to her Dad now."

"I thought she was… Oh!"

Sherlock frowned as Martin blushed.

"What?"

"Nothing! You have a nice day now, Sir." He handed the things over to Sherlock and hurried away. Sherlock shook his head and looked at Scarlet. "It's OK, Scarlet. You just scared me, that's all. Let's go home."

"But you said I could have a toy!"

He reeled. He thought about explaining to her the relevance of her not wandering off and drilling her on the potential consequences of this. He thought briefly about how he'd feel if he had to go home and tell John that he'd lost Scarlet. He felt mildly nauseous.

Scarlet wriggled in his arms. He suddenly remembered that one of them was three, and one of them was not, and if the three year old went missing the responsibility rested entirely with the adult. And he _had_ said she could go and see the elephant after they'd bought the dress.

"OK. Let's go and get a toy shall we?"

oOo

Scarlet bounded up the stairs and ran into the front room where she jumped on John.

"Daddy! Look what I got!" She shoved a huge teddy bear at him.

"Is this for Jessica?"

"No! This is because I was good!"

"That's nice."

"Daddy! Look at my new shoes!"

He sat up on the sofa and looked.

"They're very nice."

"They're pink and have fairies and glitter and look!" she jumped up and down and the lights flashed.

"Are they OK?" Sherlock asked from the doorway.

John looked over to him and laughed. "Are you OK?"

"Yes! Fine! Why wouldn't I be?"

"No reason! You look a little tired, that's all!"

"Well I'm not. Are you making tea?" He threw himself an armchair.

John laughed again. "Yes, tea coming right up. Have you eaten today?"

"I haven't but Scarlet's had a sandwich and a cake."

John called from the kitchen. "That's a very big teddy bear you got her there. She must have been very, very good."

"Apparently nothing else would do, and that bear was the only thing she's ever wanted in her life, ever."

John laughed again. "It's funny how many things are absolutely central to her survival."

Sherlock stood up and staggered through to the kitchen.

"She ran off."

"What?"

"I'm really sorry! I only took my eyes off her for a second, I swear! We were talking, and then I looked down and she was gone!"

"Did she go to the toys?"

"No. There was a massive elephant thing for a promotion. She wanted to adopt it."

"Christ! It's horrible when that happens."

"When shops install an elephant?"

"Or an aeroplane, or something shiny and she sees it and she can't get it out of her head. Sorry. I should have warned you. She's like a dog with a bone when there's something she wants. I've only just stopped tying her to me with reins."

"So you're not angry with me for losing her?"

"No. Well, I might be if it was because you were distracted and had wandered away from her, but I don't hold you responsible for my child chasing the butterflies that only live in her head. Actually I feel quite sorry for you. It feels awful."

"It does! I honestly thought I couldn't breathe!"

"Here. Have a tea. I'll take her to the party. And on the way we'll have _another_ talk about not running away or letting go of hands."

"No, I want to take her to the party."

"Seriously, Sherlock, I've rested now! I'm fine to do it."

"So am I! I'm just as capable!"

"I know you are! It just feels cruel, sending you into a soft play centre, unprepared."

"Now you're just being melodramatic!"

"No, Sherlock, seriously! It could be dangerous!" John waved a tea-spoon at him.

"Now I really want to go."

oOo

Two hours later he was looking up at Scarlet who was sobbing in her new pink dress. She'd climbed to the top of a massive, enclosed climbing-frame.

"Just reverse! I mean, go out backwards!" he called up to her.

"I can't!" she wailed. "I'm stuck!"

"No! Look, if you got up there, you can definitely get down!"

"It's too high on the way down!"

"It's exactly the same height than it was on the way up!"

She cried some more. There were Real Tears. Sherlock turned around to find three mothers looking at him crossly.

"What?" he asked. "It's exactly the same height on the way down than on the way up!"

"I'll go and get her," one of the mothers said. She started taking her shoes off and huffing.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Fine! I'll go!"

He took off his shoes and dropped his coat on top of them and entered the climbing frame complex. He slowly snaked his way up to where Scarlet was. He had to fold himself quite carefully around some of the corners, as it was designed for people who were considerably shorter than him. Eventually he pulled himself onto the little platform that Scarlet was sat on. He curled himself up and wedged himself next to her.

"Are you OK, Turnip?"

"It's too high!"

"No it's not. I'll help you down."

"It's all noisy!"

"Well I don't disagree with that. Actually it's quite nice up here, isn't it? All the noisy people are underneath us."

She sniffed.

"Shall we make this into our castle?" Sherlock asked her. "We could say that only people who don't scream are allowed up here."

"You screamed in the night, tomorrow."

He deciphered this. "No I didn't. Oh, did you mean when I burnt myself? It was quite painful though." He thought about her night terrors. "Actually, maybe we should say that sometimes night-time screaming is OK and not something we should worry about. But people have to be quiet during the day if they want to climb up here."

A ball whizzed past his head on the other side of the netting they were protected by.

"Soft play centres aren't at all like I thought they would be," he told Scarlet. "Are you enjoying yourself though?"

"A bit. I don't like the high bits. I like it now you're here though."

"You liked the big slide. I saw you laughing on the big slide."

"Yes. That's where I was going and then I went the wrong way and got here."

"Well, shall we go and see if we can find the right way?"

"No, I want to stay in our castle with you now."

A speaker announced that the party food for Jessica's party was available in the Jungle Room.

"That's you," Sherlock told her. "I'll go first and help you."

He wriggled off the platform and they made their way down to the ground together. He stood away from the other adults while he watched her eat and chat with her friends. A cake was produced and the children sang. Eventually he was handed a party bag and Scarlet's new pink shoes, and he was free to leave. Scarlet was drooping as he tried to find a cab, and as soon as he'd put her seatbelt on, she curled up and shut her eyes.

"Have I worn you out, Turnip?"

"Yes."

He smiled and let her sleep all the way home.

At home he refused to allow John the honour of bath-time and the bedtime story. It was getting dark when he finally threw himself down on the sofa.

"That was…" he said. He didn't quite know how to finish.

"Yeah. She is a bit isn't she."

"Actually, today was the most fun I've had in a long, long time."

John laughed. "Well, I haven't wanted to give her away yet."

"Hm. Did you have a good day?"

"Actually I was bored out of my skull. So, I'm not going to make you do it all again tomorrow."

"I could, you know. I know you think I'm incapable, but I could. I'm not even that tired. I'm hungry, but not tired."

"I'll order in. I can't be bothered to cook."

"Lazy bones."

"Yeah. I'm lazy through and through." He went into the kitchen to find a menu and make the order.

When he got back into the front room, Sherlock was curled up on the sofa, fast asleep.


	59. Sex 2

**So everyone asked for more young Turnip, but I haven't quite finished with Teen Scarlet yet. Sorry. I don't mean to be contrary and Turnip will be back.**

**I wanted to have another bash at this subject. I feel I did it far more justice in the Slightly story, but here it's still not working for me. I think that this might close the episode a bit.**

* * *

_Scarlet is sixteen. This starts directly after 'Interrogation'._

John wasn't exactly waiting up for Sherlock. He wasn't going to bed. He'd taken Darren home in a taxi, stopping several times for the poor sod to be sick, and then he'd walked back from Darren's house to clear his head. He'd expected Sherlock to have made his way home in the time he'd taken. In fact the flat was quiet. He checked on Scarlet but she was already asleep, and the front room was dark and Sherlock's room was empty.

He wandered downstairs and flicked through the channels until he found a bearable film. He kept telling himself he'd stay up for ten more minutes until it was nearly one.

Sherlock eventually came in and walked slowly up the stairs. He got as far as the front room where he stopped and stared at John.

"You're still up."

"Yes. You were out late."

"We went for a drink."

"Oh."

"I'm going to bed." He turned and took his coat off, hung it up and left.

"Wait! Sherlock!"

Sherlock turned and looked at him.

"Sorry, Sherlock, are you pissed off with me?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Yes."

He turned to leave again.

"Sherlock, wait! Do you really not understand how deeply inappropriate that was?"

"No, John, do you not understand how…" he stopped and went quiet.

"What? How is this my fault? I'm desperate to know!"

"John, you have no idea what went on. You heard something, you made an assumption and you just blazed in!"

"There's nothing that that boy could have done that would have warranted that behaviour!"

Sherlock shook his head and turned away again.

"Scarlet will be fine, Sherlock!"

"Yes, she will be."

"Are you trying to imply that you know my daughter better than I do?"

"Stop being so foolish! Do you realise that you're looking at this as though it was a competition? It's ridiculous! Of course you know her better than anyone, John! Of course she loves you better than she loves anyone else! Those things don't matter to anyone but you! And sometimes I wonder if you think you know her so well that there's no point talking to her any more."

"I talk to her all the time!"

"No, you don't! You talk at her and you never bloody listen! I'm going to bed."

He left and walked up the stairs. John didn't call him back this time. He stared at the film, annoyed, and finally went up to bed himself.

oOo

John was up early making tea and porridge so he was ready when Scarlet came downstairs.

"Morning, sweetheart. I thought I'd make you something more substantial this morning."

She looked at the porridge and went a bit green.

"I don't think I could manage it actually, Dad."

He looked at her and frowned.

"It's only maths, Scarlet. It'll be OK."

"Yeah. I'm just looking forward to the whole week being over."

"I know. But you've only got two more after this. Then the prom on Friday! So there's something to look forward to!"

"I'm not going to the prom."

"What do you mean? You've been looking forward to it!"

"It's a stupid idea imported from America and a bit pointless in over here when most of us are going to the same sixth form college anyhow. Look, can we talk about something else?"

"Of course, what do you want to talk about?"

"I don't know. Nothing. Just not the prom and not exams."

"You'll be fine, Scarlet. But you needn't give up the whole prom just because you broke up with Darren. You wanted to go with your mates anyway!"

"Not any more."

"Scarlet, just take a few deep breaths and calm down. You can do this."

"Yeah." She rubbed her face for a moment. "What did you and Sherlock row about last night?"

"You heard us?"

"You woke me up but I couldn't hear what was going on."

"Oh it was nothing. It was Sherlock being an idiot as usual."

"He's not an idiot! He helped loads yesterday!"

"Well, I'm glad he's given you a bit of maths confidence anyhow, though you look like you could use just a bit more. Now what do you want to eat? You can't sit an exam with nothing inside you."

"I'll have a banana."

"OK. And a tea?"

"Please."

She stared into space for a while and he watched her, concerned.

Sherlock appeared and sat down at the table with her.

"Is there any coffee?"

"You know where the kettle is," John told him.

"I'll do it," Scarlet said, getting up.

"No, it's fine," John said. "I've got it. Sorry."

Sherlock looked at Scarlet.

"Look, there's nothing to worry about. You walk in, sit at the desk, answer the questions and then afterwards you can walk straight home again if you want to. There's no reason to hang about chatting afterwards if you don't want to."

She nodded and he reached over and squeezed her hand.

"It's true," John said. "I hated the bit after exams where everyone went on about what answers they got. It's a waste of time and it just makes you worry."

He turned around and both Scarlet and Sherlock were looking at him like he was mad.

Scarlet shook her head. "I'll be fine. It's fine. It's just an exam, and there are only two left afterwards. It's all fine."

"That's the spirit, Scarlet," John said, smiling at her.

Her smile back had no life in it.

"I'm going to shower," she said and she got up and walked away.

John looked at Sherlock for answers but he'd drifted off and was staring into space.

oOo

They were both sat in the living room, not talking, when Scarlet came home.

"How did it go?" John asked.

"It was fine. Fine."

"Good. I'm glad to hear it. Are you going to rest this afternoon, or get on with history revision?"

"History."

"Well, don't work too hard. I think you might have been getting a bit intense about it all, Scarlet. You shouldn't. They're just exams."

"Yeah. I know."

"Are you OK?" Sherlock asked her.

She glanced at him and nodded. "Yeah. It was fine."

"Good."

"Right, what do people want to eat?" John said. "Scarlet, you didn't have breakfast so it's your choice. I'm sure Sherlock can fall in with whatever."

"Actually, I'm heading out for a bit. I just wanted to check you'd got on OK, Scarlet."

"Don't do anything stupid," John told him sternly.

Sherlock didn't answer. He just marched out of the flat.

"That was mean," Scarlet said.

John shook his head. "Did he tell you what he did last night?"

"No."

"No. Well, it was really silly."

"I'm sure he didn't mean to!"

"No, this was premeditated stupidity."

"Well, sometimes we all do stupid stuff."

"Right, what do you want to eat?"

"Actually, I might go out for a bit of a walk for a bit."

"A walk?" He frowned at her. "Aren't you hungry though?"

"No. Not really. And I want a breather before getting on with the next lot. I think I need to get out of the flat for a bit."

"OK then. A walk sounds nice. I'll come with you."

She shrugged "OK."

They walked next to each other for quite a distance around the paths in Regent's Park. John fought the urge to pepper Scarlet with questions, instead opting for letting her think for a while and choosing their paths. He wondered if he was consciously trying not talk at her.

She looked up suddenly and smiled.

"There's the bike bush."

He smiled too. "There was one split second when I didn't think I'd be able to get you out. I was on the point of calling the fire service."

She snorted. "I'm glad you didn't! That would have been embarrassing!"

"I don't think you'd have minded at the time. You liked a bit of drama. And having a whole fire engine turn up to get you out of a bush would have kept you going in stories for months."

"Dad, I think whatever happened with Sherlock yesterday might have been my fault."

"What do you mean?"

"I think I upset him. No, I don't mean that."

"What _do_ you mean?"

"I… look, I think he just did that protective thing."

"No, Scarlet, it wasn't your fault. He knows what boundaries there are, and kidnapping a seventeen year old and terrifying him was way beyond anything that's even vaguely acceptable."

"Yeah. Maybe. Should we head back?"

He glanced at her. "No. Do you want to tell me what happened with Sherlock?"

"With Sherlock? Nothing happened with Sherlock."

"You said you'd upset him."

"Yes. And no. I didn't upset him, I got upset in front of him and that upset him. And then he tends to go a bit mental." She stopped walking and stared at the ground at her feet for a while. "Look, some stuff that had gone on with my friends on facebook. Darren said some stuff about me, a couple of the other's pitched in. Most didn't, but they'll all have read it. I got upset."

"Ah. The perils of relationships ending in the era of social networks."

"Yeah."

"Look, Scarlet, people will move on and forget. And if they don't know yet that people who have just broken up are going to say nasty stuff about each other, then they soon will. It happens."

She looked up, angry. "Yeah, well I didn't say nasty stuff about him, and we hadn't broken up when he did either. It was the cause of the break up, not the result."

"Oh. I didn't know. I'm sorry. I assumed he'd left you."

"Well, you were wrong. Look, let's go home."

"No, wait, Scarlet! I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I didn't get the facts first. I just assumed that you wouldn't want to talk about it."

"Yeah."

"So he said some stupid stuff and you broke it off with him?"

"Yeah."

"But you don't seem relieved. If he was an idiot and is going to do that sort of thing, surely it's better…"

"Let's go home." She set off.

He followed her. She walked silently and quickly. It was quite obvious to him that she was angry though.

"Scarlet, you won't be alone forever. There'll be other people who you'll be with…"

She rounded on him. "Oh stop it! I _know_ that! I know there are plenty more fish in the sea, and I'm sixteen and I wasn't expecting to be with him forever! It doesn't mean it isn't really hard right now!"

"Scarlet! Obviously it's hard. I'm sorry. I just thought that you weren't that serious about him!"

"Well you were wrong! Only, I was wrong too! Damn it! Look, it's just really confusing and I'm really tired, and I'm stressing about exams, and I should probably eat something and just get over it all! Don't worry. I'll be fine." She turned away to storm off again.

"No, wait Scarlet. I'm sorry. I am sorry, I didn't mean to patronise you. I just… I just didn't understand where you were coming from. Can we try this again? Could we please try you talking to me and me, I don't know, maybe listening?"

She snorted and wiped her face. She nodded though, and they sat down on a bench. Scarlet looked over to the grass where a group of toddlers were playing with a big red football.

"It used to be so much easier when I was that age."

"Yeah, for you. I had to think of a million entertaining things for you to do every day and constantly try to keep you clean and out of trouble. It was good though. I honestly have loved every second, Scarlet. It feels odd with you all grown up now. Not that I'm not loving it all now of course!"

"I'm not that grown up. And I'm still fairly stupid and need help."

"No, that's not true. The stupid part anyway. I will try to help though, if you need help. Sherlock will too, you know that."

"Yes. I think that's what I'm saying. He was only trying to help. He was! And yes, I know that whatever happened to Darren might have been a touch over the top, but in some ways I'm quite glad. He's an arsehole. He's horrible, and I can't believe I didn't see it. But Sherlock was trying to help, so please don't be angry with him. I hate the idea of you arguing because of me."

"OK."

"Thank you."

They watched the football game for a while longer. There were clearly no rules, just the excitement of the beautiful red ball. Every now and again a parent would join in to steer them back as they wandered too far away.

John thought about Scarlet. He remembered that age as one of exhaustion and excitement. He also remembered knowing exactly what she was thinking at any second of the day. Usually because she was telling him, continuously, with barely a pause for breath.

He was angry because he knew that Sherlock was right. The way Scarlet communicated had changed over the years and he hadn't kept pace with it. She didn't offer information to him the way she used to. Things that were happening to her were no longer simply reported, but he'd notice a seemingly random reaction and it needed to be traced back to its origins before any of it made sense.

Sherlock was good at this. He'd been the one who'd found out that the girls were giving her a hard time at school, and worked out why, and resolved it before John had even got home from his conference. Sherlock had worked out the thing with the school play that had caused three weeks of anguish and arguments in the flat. Sherlock had worked out that Scarlet had been missing the mother she'd never known far sooner than John had wanted to admit that this might be the case.

Sherlock had mentioned several times that John was way ahead of him with accepting that Scarlet was growing up. He wondered now about the truth of that sentiment. He wondered whether he wasn't so much being laid back, as simply not connecting at all and just hoping for the best. Sherlock still felt he needed to make exactly the same amount of effort as he had done when Scarlet was eight weeks old and refusing her first bottle. She had always been complicated to him. It was part of the reason he loved her, and the reason that he hadn't let go.

He looked at the toddlers and their ball. He thought about Sherlock's words from last night. He thought back about his and Scarlet's conversation in the park and concentrated on it all again.

"Scarlet, what was it that Darren said about you on his Facebook page?"

"Hm?" She jolted out of her daydream. "Oh that. It doesn't matter."

"I think it probably does."

"He said I was childish. Not to me, to his friends. They agreed and they all made fun."

"He is a bit older than you, remember."

"Only a year though."

"A year can make quite a difference though, Scarlet. And it's not even just the age thing. People are ready for different things at different times and it's all OK. You know that, don't you?"

"Yes, of course."

"Good. Because I wouldn't want you to feel that it's wrong to wait until you're ready for… certain things."

She flinched slightly. "Yeah. Great. Thanks."

"What?"

"Nothing. Don't worry about it."

"Scarlet, what I'm saying is, if he was saying that you were childish for wanting to wait, then he is completely and utterly in the wrong!" Her face was completely blank. "And actually, sweetheart, him even discussing it with anyone who wasn't you was really bad of him."

"Yeah. That's not what happened, so you don't need to worry about it."

"Well why won't you tell me what happened? I can't work it out, Scarlet! I'm not like Sherlock! If you don't tell me, I'll guess and I'll get it wrong!"

She closed her eyes for a while.

"Look, you don't need to worry," she finally said. "It's done and dusted now. Sherlock took me over to Bart's and I had a long chat with Molly and it's all OK now."

John took a deep breath. He blinked hard, and then he nodded. "Good. Well, good. I'm glad Molly could help you. And Sherlock too. I'm glad you've got them."

She watched him for a moment. "Look, just so you don't have to sit there wondering, you should know, I told Darren he didn't have to wait any more, but it wasn't… It was weird and a bit scary and a bit painful, and when I got upset about that, Darren thought I was being a baby. But it's OK, I know now that sometimes that happens at first, I know his reaction was wrong, and just because I made a mistake with him doesn't mean that I will do with everyone else. And I know that Darren is an idiot and that I can do better. So it's OK and you don't need to worry."

John took a while to respond. "OK."

"But it was still tough going into school today, knowing that any number of them could read the conversation between Darren and Jake and Simon and would know about what happened and how I was with it. It was just embarrassing, that's all. And I really don't want to have to go through it all over again tomorrow and Thursday, but it's just those two days, and then I can keep my head down for the whole of the summer."

John nodded. "OK," he said again.

"We should probably go home. I'm hungry and I need a nap. See, I am just like a toddler again."

"OK. No, wait Scarlet. There's something I need to know before he go home. Did Darren pressurise you?"

"No. He didn't force me. It was my choice, Dad. It really was! It was the wrong choice and I made a mistake, it was still my choice."

"Scarlet, listen to me a second, please. I'm not saying the word 'forced' here. I'm saying 'pressurised'. Did he pressurise you into sex?"

"No, he persuaded me. That's all!"

"Scarlet, please, please, Love, just listen a second. You know there's a difference between him asking and suggesting, and him nagging and complaining until you stop saying no. You know that, don't you?"

She nodded quickly. Her tears came quickly though and suddenly she was sobbing in his shoulder.

"It was my choice!" she mumbled. "It was my choice! I know how to say no!"

He held her tightly. "It's OK, Love. It's OK. I know you do." He kissed her hair and stroked her back for a while.

After a while she calmed down and pulled away from him. She wiped her face on her hands and her hands on her trousers.

"Sorry," she said. "I should just have listened to you from the start with the 'wait until you're ready' thing. The problem was, I got bored of waiting. And I kept wondering whether I'd ever be ready."

"Yeah. Not really good advice though, was it. Well, yeah, it's a good idea in theory but I can't be in every bedroom just checking that you're absolutely sure just to balance out the stupid, shitty boys who might be there with you."

"No." She wiped her eyes again and sniggered. "Though, thinking about it, I'm quite pleased about that."

"Yeah."

"And Molly said that it's not this way with everyone. She thinks I'm likely to find that the next boyfriend isn't a complete shit, and because of that, I'm likely to be ready sooner. It actually makes a lot more sense now."

"Yeah. Perhaps I should have clarified that." He sighed. "Anyway, most boys aren't like that. I hope."

"Mm. I didn't think Darren was though."

"No. Neither did I. Sherlock never liked him though."

"No. But then, Sherlock doesn't like many people."

"No."

"Anyhow, it was all a bit of a mess in the end. Then the other thing with Facebook and it was all a bit too much."

"Yes. Not an ideal set of things to happen in the middle of your exams."

"No. Well, they're mostly done now. And like Sherlock says, I can just go in for the exams and leave again."

"Have any of your friends talked to you about it?"

She shook her head. "No. And I don't want them to. So far their advice has been spectacularly rubbish. They're all giggly and stupid when the subject comes up. Well, Serene and some of the others are more of the 'everyone does it so you might as well get it over with' school."

"God. Poor girls."

"Yes. Oh, you won't mention it to any of them will you? Please don't make this into a crusade!"

"No, of course I won't! Do you want to talk to me about it now? About what happened with you I mean?"

She shook her head. "It's fine. What Molly said made sense. I don't want to go through it all again."

"OK then."

"I am sorry though."

"For what?"

"For screwing it all up. For… I don't know. For jumping in when I wasn't sure when you'd told me over and over not to."

"Oh, Scarlet," John said, smiling slightly. "There's only one screw up around here with all of this and that's me. I'm sorry we haven't properly talked about this. I'm sorry that I've made you uncomfortable and confused about it. I never meant that to happen. And I'm really sorry that the only advice I ever gave you was one slightly archaic statement repeated ad infinitum, without ever qualifying or explaining it. So I'm sorry, OK. And I am really glad that you felt you could talk to Sherlock and Molly about it. I'm glad they could help you. And please, _please_ understand that you can do whatever you want with whomever you want and none of it is any of my business. I have no right or authority to judge you for any of it. OK?"

"OK. Thank you. Can we go and get something to eat now? I'm starving."

He smiled. "Yes, of course."

"Oh, and can you stop being angry with Sherlock? I think that thing happened when lots of emotional stuff happened and he broke a bit. He didn't mean to be an idiot."

"No, I know. And I'm not angry with him any more, and I will go so far as to text him an apology."

"OK. Good. Thanks."

oOo

John was reading the newspaper when Sherlock got home. He stood in the doorway, and looked at John.

"I didn't understand your text," he said.

John glanced up with a frown. "Really? What part of it was confusing to you?"

"It says 'Sorry, I am an infinite John.' I have reason to doubt that claim."

"It says 'Sorry, I am an idiot, John.'"

Sherlock took out his phone, found the text and handed it over. John looked at it and handed it back.

"Well, I am an infinite John. You should get used to it."

"Tea?"

"I'll make it."

"You always end up making it when I offer."

"Yes. I've taken to assuming your offer is a disguised request."

"It is."

"Good. I'm glad we're clear on this now." John got up and went through to the kitchen. "You were right, by the way."

Sherlock followed him. "Yes. Maybe. I still have many doubts."

"Mm. Me too. The thing I was referring to though, was months ago. You offered to talk to her about sex, I said no, and that she'd talk to me when she was ready. I didn't factor in other stuff."

"Other stuff?"

"Like the fact that she might see me as an old fashioned, uncommunicative sod who doesn't listen to her. It didn't occur to me that she might discuss it all with her friends and take their advice over mine. It didn't occur to me to raise the subject myself just in case she didn't think she was able to."

"John, did you ever once discuss your sex life with your parents?"

"God no!"

"No. I didn't either."

"I thought I got on with Scarlet better than I got on with my parents though."

"You certainly get on with her better than I got on with mine."

John smiled. "And yet…"

"I don't think it's about how much you love each other though. Scarlet clearly adores you. She sets all these high standards for herself just so she won't let you down. She'd hate to hurt you."

"Yes, I know. And therein lies the problem. She'd rather not talk to me than risk upsetting me. And hell damn-it, Sherlock, I've always liked her youth and her naivety. I'm cross with myself for trying to keep her innocent to the extent that she's unprepared for everything."

"Mm."

They were quiet for a while. The kettle clicked off and John went to get the milk from the fridge. As he did so, he stopped to look at The List on the fridge door.

"Maybe we should take The List down now. It seems a little past is purpose now."

"I like the list. I like it being there. It gives me a wonderful sense of victory that I didn't completely mess up."

"Mm. I did though and I wrote the bloody thing."

Sherlock went to the fridge and started taking down the various things that were stuck on it. "Technically there's nothing on there about not alienating her so that she doesn't feel able to talk to us."

"No, I managed that one all by myself."

"Don't get self-pitying. It's annoying. Besides, you have talked to her about some stuff, and I'm sure that your conversation went better than my effort where I panicked so much that all I could think to ask was 'were you careful' and 'were you forced'."

"I'd forgotten about careful. Oh, hell, she was careful wasn't she?"

"Of course she was. Hey, look at this!" He took down a laminated certificate. "Her award for courage." He smiled.

"Give it here!" John smiled too.

"You know what," Sherlock said, "If you'd have thought to discuss it with her, you'd probably have told her that if someone breaks their leg in front of her, she should immediately run and summon adult help. You'd have told her not to try to deal with it at all."

"Yes. I would have."

"No, don't get all maudlin again! What I'm saying is, left to her own devices she's actually a fairly strong and sensible person. She has courage and self-belief. She might not have heard you tell her exactly what to do, yet she was able to emulate your general behaviour to come up with the right solution."

"Oh lord, I'm not sure I want her emulating my behaviour with relationships."

"Why? You've had at least one successful one. That's one more than some people manage." Sherlock frowned. "At least one more than me. And I'm prepared to entertain the possibility that you might have had a disastrous one at some point too…"

"Oh god yes! At least four without even having to think hard about it!"

"And yet you're still here. It's true you're still an infinite, but you seem vaguely happy with the way your life's turned out. So if she makes three fewer mistakes than you, she's arguably way ahead of you. Maybe we should stop seeing Darren as this huge catastrophe and start seeing it as just a mistake that happened. Maybe that will be more beneficial to her in the long term."

"A pretty big mistake though. It's quite important, don't you think?"

"Yes. But perhaps less important than what she does next and how she moves on from it."

"Mm." John thought about this. "Maybe you're right."

"Of course I'm right. I'm always right."

"Yeah. I'm infinite though."

"Yes you are. You are an infinite John."

"There is something I want to know though."

"Mm?"

"Was Darren really scared?"

"Oh yes. I thought he was going to wet himself at one point. Mycroft particularly excelled himself."

"Good."


	60. Stickers

Stickers.

_Scarlet is three._

Sherlock wandered down to the bottom of the garden where there was a shed. He turned around a few times in the garden to get a few times to scan for clues to announce when the time came for him to dazzle and amaze. He noticed a number of the police officers smiled as he walked by.

He was pleased with this sudden affection. He felt that perhaps they were beginning to understand exactly what he could do and exactly how much they needed him.

He reached Lestrade.

"This is the shed then," he said.

"Yep. Corpse is inside."

From behind them, Sally Donovan burst out laughing. Lestrade frowned at her. Sherlock frowned and shook his head.

He stepped forward and leaned into the small shed and gave the body therein a cursory examination.

He turned around to Lestrade and was surprised to find him smirking.

"What? What's wrong with all of you?"

"Nothing! Scarlet well is she?"

"Yes, she's fine!"

"And perhaps before you left the house she was playing with glitter and glue."

"She's often playing with glitter and glue! John thinks if he lets her have it, she'll grow out of it eventually and then the house will be neat and tidy again."

"Ah. And you did something that pleased her immensely."

"Of course I did! Just being there seems to be enough to please her immensely!"

"Oh. So nothing special or unusual today then?"

"No. What is this? Am I not here to work?"

"Let me help you with your jacket there, Sherlock."

Lestrade stripped the black velvet jacket off the protesting Sherlock. He held it up for examination.

On the back was a handprint of glitter and glue, clearly delivered when Scarlet had insisted on giving Sherlock a hug and a kiss goodbye.

At roughly the position of her other hand, there was a sticker with a bright yellow smiley face and the words 'I am VERY good!'

Sherlock sniffed.

"Well?" he asked loudly. "Does anyone here want to repudiate the fact that I am very good? Fine! Then be quiet!"

He snatched the jacket from Lestrade and went back to work.

**Sorry, short little one just to wave and let you know I haven't forgotten any of you or this fandom.**

**I am currently immensely proud of having written around 45,000 words in the past three weeks or so. I've got about 10,000 still to write (or thereabouts, the story in my head will probably take up that amount of words.) After that, the gruelling processing of editing and re-editing. Then writing a killer cover letter and synopsis, then several years of watching rejections pour through the door.**

**Still, it's nice to have a plan, isn't it!**

**I will be back to this soon.**

**Pip xxx**


	61. The Missing Unicorn that flies

**Who's in the mood for some twee? I'm in the mood for some twee!**

**Pip xxx**

* * *

Sherlock and the Case of the Missing Unicorn (that flies).

_Scarlet is five. I'm placing this two or three weeks after Father's Day._

"How you doing there, Monkey-Face?" John asked. Scarlet was standing on a chair at the kitchen worktop.

"I think I've nearly finished."

"Jolly good."

John glanced over to check her progress and she had indeed buttered the toast to within an inch of its life.

"I think that's probably enough now," he said.

"No, there's still some bread showing." She poked her tongue out as she devoted her concentration fully to the task. "Will his birthday make Sherlock happy again?"

"Happy again? What do you mean? He's always happy."

"No, sometimes he's grumpy and sometimes he's bored and sometimes he's very thinky."

"Well yes, a person can't be happy all the time, sweetheart."

"No, I mean, sometimes he's all those things and he's still happy, and sometimes he's those things and he's sad at the same time."

John glanced across at his daughter. Despite running through the world with the appearance of an oblivious, slightly clueless, dreamy young snippet, she could be remarkably perceptive at times.

"I don't know, Poppet. I hope that it will make him a bit happier, but I'm not sure what's making him sad, so I don't know how to fix it."

"Are we making him sad?"

"No. I'm fairly sure we're not."

"Because sometimes I think that me and you go together, and I think that maybe Sherlock feels left out. Because I'm a daughter and you're a daddy, and he's a nothing."

"I don't think he's a nothing."

"I don't think so either, but he doesn't have a name so he might think so."

"I don't think he thinks that, Darling. I think that sometimes people are just a bit sadder than they are at other times, and as long as it doesn't go on too long, or get too bad, that's OK. OK?" She nodded at him. "Right, the eggs are finished, so I really need to cut the toast up and put them on the plate now."

"I'll cut them."

She savagely knifed and pulled the toast into two parts each.

"I've finished."

"Marvellous." John put them on the plate and added the eggs to the bacon and mushrooms that were already there. He filled the caffetierre with boiled water and added that and a cup and the sugar bowl to the tray too.

"Can I push it down?" Scarlet asked, eyeing the caffetierre.

"Nope, let it stand a bit, Moppet. Right, you bring the cards and the presents. Off we go!"

He picked up the tray and headed up to Sherlock's room. He opened the door with his elbow and poked his head in. The room was dark and Sherlock was buried under his duvet with his dark hair sticking out at one end, and one calf and foot at the other. He was snoring.

John felt a very brief moment of guilt. He stayed in the doorway so that Scarlet was stuck behind him.

"Morning, Sherlock!" he called. The snoring stopped. "Wakey, wakey! Rise and shine! It's a gorgeous morning!"

There was a grunt and a grumble.

"Don't swear! You're live on the radio!"

The grumble stopped and Sherlock sighed.

Scarlet could be contained no longer. "Happy birthday, Sherlock!" she squealed. "Happy, happy birthday! We got you presents and cards and breakfast!"

She hopped across the room as Sherlock rolled himself over and sat up with a bleary smile.

"I gave you a lie-in for your birthday," he said to John. "I'm just saying."

"You had a lie-in! It's seven thirty! We've been up, had breakfast, washed up, tidied the flat and cooked more breakfast for you before coming up. Here." He put the tray down on Sherlock's legs, but instantly picked it up again when Scarlet jumped onto the bed.

"Stick it there for a second," Sherlock told him, nodding to his bedside table. "And pass me those pyjamas."

John did so and Sherlock dressed under the cover of his duvet. He'd barely managed this before Scarlet flung herself on him and squeezed him tightly.

"Happy birthday, Sherlock!"

He squeezed her back. "Thank you, Turnip!"

"Do you want your presents?"

"Can I have my coffee first?"

"No!"

"Yes he can, Scarlet," John told her. He picked her up from Sherlock and sat down with her on his knee at the end of Sherlock's bed.

Sherlock sat up properly and looked at his tray.

"I made the toast!" Scarlet told him.

"And the toast does look very made!" He helped himself to coffee while the other two watched him and smiled.

"OK then, shall I open my presents?"

"Yes!" Scarlet wriggled away from John and gave Sherlock a squashy bundle. "These are socks!"

"Thank you, Turnip! I don't like suspense anyway!" He laughed. "Thank you, they're lovely socks."

"I thought you might like some of your own." John said. "You know, just in case you didn't like rummaging through my sock draw on a daily basis."

"I don't know what this is!" Scarlet said, giving him another small package.

Sherlock unwrapped it. "Oh, thank you! This is brilliant! Very useful!"

"What is it?" Scarlet asked.

"It's a new magnifying glass. I dropped my other one off a bridge."

"Why did you do that?"

"Well, it wasn't deliberate. Oh, wow! It's got an integral light too! That's very clever!"

"You're welcome," John said.

"I wrote you a whole book!" Scarlet told him.

She handed him the final package. It was small, flat and light. He started to open it.

"Be careful!" she told him. "It's a bit fragile and the glitter might come off!"

He opened it carefully and revealed a small book made from folded pieces of paper all stuck together.

"The Adventure of the Missing Unicorn (that flies)," he read. "This is lovely, Turnip!"

"Daddy helped me a little bit."

"Only with the computer and some of the typing. The words and pictures are all her own work."

Sherlock flicked through. "This must have taken days!"

"We've been working on it for a while, it's true. Now, Scarlet, why don't we leave Sherlock to eat his breakfast and to read your book and we'll see him in a little while."

"You can stay!" Sherlock said as Scarlet's face fell. "Tell you what, why don't you read the book to me while I eat my breakfast?"

"OK!" She wriggled next to him and took the book back. He wrapped his arm around her and gave her a quick kiss and John handed him the breakfast tray.

"'Once upon a time'," Scarlet started, "'There was a fairly princess!'"

"She looks familiar," Sherlock said, glancing at the picture.

"She looks like me! 'The fairly princess was very happy every day apart from about one thing. The fairy princess's wings were too little and she couldn't fly.' Look, she's crying now."

"So she is!"

"Don't worry though, Sherlock!" Scarlet said, hurrying on with to the next page. "One day, the Dragon King who was her daddy gave her a present. The present was her very own unicorn, but this unicorn was a special one with wings that could fly!'"

"That is a fantastic picture of a magic flying unicorn, Turnip!"

"I think it needs a bit more glitter."

"No, I think you've got the glitter levels just right."

"That's what dad said too."

John smiled, watching the two of them snuggled up together.

"'The fairy princess called her unicorn that flies, Rainbow. She and Rainbow went everywhere together. Then, oh no! Disaster! One day the fairy princess got up and Rainbow was gone! She looked everywhere for him but he had been stolen and was gone. She cried again.' Look, she's crying again. She cries a lot sometimes."

"Well, I think if my flying unicorn had been stolen I'd probably cry too," Sherlock told her.

"Well don't cry now because it's all OK in the end. 'The Dragon King put up posters saying 'Bring back Rainbow the unicorn that flies!' and when that didn't work, he called up the Best Detective in the whole world and he came to see them.'"

Sherlock swallowed a mouthful of mushroom and laughed. "He looks familiar too!" The picture showed a detective in a scarf and a long coat with curly black hair corkscrewing from his head.

"'The Detective said that he would find Rainbow and the dragon king said good. The detective walked about looking for clues. He looked in Rainbow's stable and he found some footprints that weren't Rainbow's footprints.' Look!" She shoved the book at Sherlock and he looked.

"They don't look like Rainbow's footprints to me!"

"No, that's because they aren't, and the Detective just said that."

"Well yes, that's true."

"I'll keep going. 'The Detective went up the hill to the apple trees. Some of the apples were gone and there were more footprints. He followed the footprints." Look, there they are following the footprints."

Sherlock nodded. "You know, following footprints is pretty much all that a detective does."

"I know!" She turned a page. "'He found some unicorn hair in the tree too and was happy because that showed that Rainbow had been there. He followed more footprints. He came to a cave that had apple cores outside it. He looked inside and said 'I think I've found rainbow!' and the fairy princess looked too and there was Rainbow. The Detective looked and saw the thief in the cave too and he tied him up. They all got on Rainbows back and he flew them back to the castle.' Look! There we are flying on a unicorn, Sherlock!"

"I'm very pleased the detective got to fly on a unicorn. I bet he enjoyed that!"

"They got home and the dragon king said 'you are a very naughty man' to the thief and he locked him in the dungeon. He said 'you are the best detective in the world and in all the other worlds everywhere too!' He made them a cup of tea.'"

"The dragon king knows his place," John said. Sherlock sniggered at him.

"'They all lived happily ever after.'" Scarlet finished. "Did you like the book, Sherlock?"

"I did, Turnip. I think it's the best book about a detective that I've ever read, thank you!" He kissed her again.

"Right, Moppet," John said. "Let's take the tray downstairs and let Sherlock sleep or get up depending on what he wants to do."

"Come downstairs soon, Sherlock!" Scarlet said. "There's a cake downstairs but Dad said we weren't allowed to eat it for breakfast."

"I'll be down soon."

He watched as Scarlet skipped from the room.

"She's worried about you," John said.

Sherlock frowned. "Why?"

"She's concerned that you're not happy at the moment."

"I am! I'm perfectly happy!"

"Really? Are you sure, because when she said it, I knew exactly what she meant."

"I am happy. John, do you think I'm too pushy?"

John guffawed. "Er, yes! Of course you are! That's what you do!"

"I mean with Scarlet, specifically."

"No. You're fine with Scarlet. I'd soon tell you if you weren't."

"The step-dad thing. I'm mostly joking you know. I know she's yours. I do."

"I know."

"It's just… John, have you ever felt like everything was so perfect that sooner or later it would all come crashing down around you and it would all be over."

"Yes. I've had moments like that."

"What happened?"

"Things came crashing down around me. Sherlock, I intended to be a soldier forever until I got shot. I intended to stay married until the day I died but that didn't happen either. Things change."

Sherlock was silent a moment and John watched him.

"That doesn't make me feel any better," Sherlock said eventually.

"Well then you're missing the point in a spectacular fashion."

"I thought I might be."

"I had plans, Sherlock, they didn't happen, and after I'd stopped moping around feeling sorry for myself, things got better. So I got shot! I wouldn't have met you or Mary if I hadn't been. Every day I wish Mary was still alive, but Scarlet's still here and living in this house isn't that bad. It's good, in fact. I might well miss my wife but I can still find things to be happy about. Scarlet mostly. I can feel an awful lot of happiness about Scarlet."

"I worry about Scarlet."

"Why?"

"Because she won't be this way forever."

"No. That's a good thing, Sherlock."

"Really?"

"Yes. Remember when she was three and she was just brilliant and everything was new to her and she was just excited about life. Busses! Remember how excited she used to get just by seeing a bus? I loved that time, but it's gone. But, now she's excited by other people's birthdays and she writes books, and I'm perfectly capable of loving that just as much."

"You won't take her away again, will you? I know she's yours, I do, and the idea that you might take her away and I'll never see her again terrifies me. That's why I push."

"I know. Look, I don't know what might happen in the future, but I can promise that if that if we move out for whatever reason, you will still see her regularly, and I won't take her anywhere without talking to you about it first. At the moment, I want to stay and so does she, and you don't seem to want to send us away. The thing that I think is critical, is that we all enjoy the time we are together."

"Mm." He thought for a while. "You're better at sharing than I am."

"Well yes. I always have been. Now stop moping, enjoy the moment and get dressed and join us for cake."

"OK. I'll be right down. Oh, and John?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you. This might well be the best birthday I've ever had."

"Good, I'm glad. Don't forget to open your cards." He left.

Sherlock looked at the two cards on his duvet. He opened the one from John and read the birthday wishes in printed form. He opened the second card and smiled. The printed words on the front read 'Happy birthday, Step-Dad!' Scarlet's message inside was poorly spelled and almost obscured by the amount of kisses the exuberant child had drawn in it.

He looked at the 'Step-Dad' words again. There was no way that Scarlet would have selected that particular card without help. It must have been at least vetted by John. He looked at the socks and the magnifying glass and smiled.

Definitely the best birthday yet.


	62. Early Days

Arthur.

_I think Scarlet's about 26. I'm not sure, I've lost track. It's a five days after 'Back to the Beginning' so you'd think I'd just look it up. Anyhow, she's an adult._

John and Sherlock stared blankly at the TV.

"Should we go and visit?" Sherlock asked.

"No, let's leave them alone today."

"It's not like we've got anything else on."

"I know, but we can't be there all the time. And they might have something else on. And Aidan's mum's over too. We can't steal all of the time she gets to have with her grandson."

"I don't like Aidan's mum."

"I know. You've made it fairly obvious. And you've told me many, many times too."

"Well."

John grabbed the remote and started flicking through channels.

"Stop me when you see anything interesting."

"Mm."

Just as John had looped through the channels a second time, they heard the front door crash open and slam shut again. The sound of a sobbing female adult and a screaming baby (male) filled the house. Scarlet stormed into the front room.

"Here," she wailed. "You wanted a grandson, you have him!"

She dumped the baby carrier onto the coffee table and stormed out again, storming up the stairs to her old bedroom and slamming the door there too.

"I miss her," said Sherlock. "Don't you?"

"Oh, hell!" John muttered. "You sort him, I'll sort her." He slid the carrier along the table to where Sherlock was.

"Interesting," Sherlock said to Arthur. He unstrapped the screaming, scarlet monster, and picked him up. He peered at him. "Mm. You're going to need to stop the noise I'm afraid, Spud."

Arthur wailed and screamed.

"That's the spirit," Sherlock said. He stood up and propped Arthur on his shoulder. He started pacing up and down the flat patting Arthur and shushing him quite calmly.

Arthur wailed.

Meanwhile, upstairs, Scarlet was sobbing onto John's shoulder.

"I can't do it!" she wailed. "I can't make him be happy and quiet and bloody Brigit's just there judging me and tutting and Aidan's useless and Arthur hates me!"

"Arthur doesn't hate you, Love."

"He hates me! He won't stop crying all the ruddy time!"

"Well, I can still hear him crying with Sherlock, so it's not restricted to you."

They listened to Arthur wail for a moment. He suddenly went quiet. Scarlet looked at John, concerned.

"What the bloody hell's he done to my son!"

She leapt up and stormed downstairs again.

"Are you all right?" Sherlock asked her.

"What did you do?" she cried.

"Nothing, it's fine, Scarlet, he's fine. Look!" He turned the baby slightly so that she could see his face. He was looking quite calm now, and was a much creamier colour.

"Do you want him back?"

"No!" She shook her head. "How did you make him stop screaming?"

"I didn't do anything. I was just holding him and walking, and then he did an almighty burp, and then he stopped crying."

Scarlet's face crumpled and she threw herself down on the sofa. "I didn't think they needed winding when they're breastfed! Oh God! I can't do this!"

"Scarlet, of course you can!" John said. "He's five days old! Did you really think you were going to learn everything about him in the first week that he was born? Come on now." He sat down next to her and hugged her again. "Calm down, Scarlet. Settle down, Love."

"I'm rubbish with babies!" She wailed.

"No you're not," John said.

"No, of course you're not!" Sherlock said. "Apart from anything else, there's only one baby that you're rubbish with!"

She stopped crying in surprise.

"Sherlock!" John said.

"Obviously, I didn't mean that how it sounded!" Sherlock said. "But I haven't seen you with many babies so I can't possibly tell whether you're rubbish with all babies, or just this one. No, wait, that wasn't it either! What I'm saying is that we just haven't got enough evidence…"

"Sherlock, for the love of God, please stop talking!" John said. "Now, Scarlet, ignore the idiot."

She sniffed. "He's not an idiot though, is he! And he can manage him better than I can and he's never even had a baby."

"Yes he did, Scarlet. He helped with you all the time."

"Oh!" Sherlock said. "I can do that again if you want!"

Scarlet looked at him blankly.

"I can take him out for a push around the park every day. You can use that time to have a sleep."

"I don't want to have a sleep. I want to not be completely clueless with my son!"

"OK, calm down, Scarlet," John said.

"I can't calm down! I need to be a bloody parent and I can't do any of it!" She sobbed. "You should just adopt him and have done with it!"

Arthur wailed slightly and Sherlock rocked him and shushed him slightly.

John's phone rang and he rolled his eyes, and then, checking the caller ID, he answered it.

"Yes, Aidan…. Yes she's here…. Yes she's fine…. Yeah, he's fine too…. No, you don't worry, have a sleep, we'll have them here for a bit and deliver them safely home by dinner time…. Yeah. Bye now."

"I'm not going home ever again," Scarlet grumped.

"I see your sense of proportion is flooding back," John said.

"I know you think I'm being silly, but I'm not!"

"I don't think you're being silly, actually, I think you're being exhausted, mildly traumatised, extremely overwrought, and absolutely flooded with post-birth hormones."

She sniffed and looked at him. "Really?"

"Yes. He's five days old. Six days ago, he was living inside you and your body was automatically doing everything he needed. Then you spent sixteen hours of pain, trying to get him out of your body, and now he's here and his needs have changed entirely. But you don't get to have a break yet, because your body's trying to revert back to normal, while also trying to produce everything he needs to eat. Scarlet, it's day five. You're pretty much meant to be in a mess."

She sniffed and nodded slightly.

"That's exactly what I was trying to say!" Sherlock said.

This very nearly raised a smile, but Scarlet shook her head. Arthur started grizzling again and Scarlet started looking around for the changing bag.

"He might be wet or something," she muttered.

"Do you want me to change him?" Sherlock asked.

"No, it's fine. I'd better do it."

"Scarlet," Sherlock said, "Way, way back, when your Dad first moved in here with me, he used to be really stubborn and stupid."

He sat down on the coffee table and shifted Arthur's position so that he was cradling him in his arms. He rocked him and smiled at him and Arthur gazed at him.

"Was that story going anywhere, Sherlock?" John asked.

"What? Oh, yes. Scarlet, you're not the first Watson to be stubborn and stupid. About their child I mean. You don't have to do it all, there are at least three other people I can think of who actually _want_ to hold him and change him and do all of those things for him. You don't have to do it all."

Arthur gave a single wail.

"See! He agrees with me. Now where's the changing bag and I'll change him."

"I'll change him!" John said.

"No, I got him first!" Sherlock located the bag and he took Arthur to the other side of the room.

Scarlet smiled and wiped her face again.

"I'm sorry for being all silly," she said.

"You're fine," John said. "You're doing fine."

"Well, I'm not really," she sighed. "Breastfeeding really hurts and I'm just there wishing he'd get it over and done with and Brigit keeps raising her eyebrows and commenting that he seems to be eating an awful lot. Do you think I'm doing it wrong?"

"No, I think she's a miserable old trout for judging the diet of a five day old!"

"Dad!"

"Sorry. No, actually I'm not sorry. She's being silly, Scarlet, he'll eat as much as he needs to eat, it's pretty much all he's programmed to do and he's programmed to do it pretty damned efficiently."

"I think she's trying to be helpful. She's wondering if there's something wrong with how I'm doing it and he's not getting enough out of me."

"Well it's not helpful, is it."

"It really hurts though. Should it be hurting?"

"I don't think so. I have to admit, it's not something I have expert knowledge of. Do you have a fever?" He put his hand on her forehead but shook his head.

"I have expert knowledge, yes I do!" Sherlock said to Arthur in a sing song voice.

"Sherlock?" John said, raising his eyebrows.

"Sorry, I don't, but I have a friend who's a breastfeeding counsellor." He sat up with his back against the armchair and held Arthur on his knees. He picked up the baby's feet and pretended he was kicking him.

"Sherlock?" John said again. "Are you going to share your friend's name with us?"

"What friend? Oh, yes, the counsellor person. Do you want to talk to her, Scarlet?"

Scarlet shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe I should. Brigit would have a field day if she found out though."

"Brigit would think less of your for finding out the most effective way to feed your child?" John asked. "Seriously, Scarlet, ignore her! Sherlock, bus us a go with the baby! You've had him for ages!"

"I changed him. That means I get him longer."

"Give him here and go and call your counsellor friend."

When Sherlock didn't move, John got up and retrieved the baby. He sat down again next to Scarlet. Arthur immediately started fussing.

"Maybe he only likes Sherlock," Scarlet suggested.

"Then he has no discernment." John rocked him. When this didn't work, he positioned him against his shoulder and got up to pace with him, but this didn't help either.

"I should feed him again," Scarlet said.

"I'm torn between suggesting you rest a bit, and agreeing wholeheartedly."

"Pass him here."

"I'm never going to get a turn, am I?"

"You'll have to be quicker next time." She started unbuttoning her shirt and she reached out for him. John handed him over and she wriggled and squirmed until she'd positioned him. She slowly relaxed.

Sherlock came back in and instantly turned away.

"She'll be here in twenty minutes."

"Sherlock, we might be here a while," Scarlet told him. "I'll try to be discreet, but you might have to learn not to freak out."

"OK, fine." He almost turned around. "I know, I'll make you some tea!" He went to hide in the kitchen.

"He's such a big wuss," Scarlet grumbled.

"Yeah, but Arthur seems to like him," John said.

"Mm. You know what? Now that I know someone's coming to help, this already feels a bit more bearable."

"Good."

Sherlock came in with the tea and he sidled up to Scarlet and held it out.

"I've sort of got my hands full."

"I'll just leave it here. And go and sit… over there."

Scarlet and John both smirked at him.

Several hours later and an air of calm had settled over the flat. Scarlet had spoken to a lovely ex-midwife called Paulette who had praised what she was already doing and gave her some guidance on latching and positioning. Sherlock and John listened, intrigued and ferried cups of tea and biscuits over to Scarlet.

Arthur finally indicated he was replete and John finally managed to take him for a cuddle. He was sitting on the armchair being a human cot. He was almost visibly glowing with pride. Scarlet had curled up on the sofa and fallen asleep and Sherlock was quietly mocking John.

"I think he smiled at me earlier," Sherlock said.

"No he didn't!"

"He did. While I was chatting with him."

"It was wind."

"No it wasn't. You're just jealous because he likes me best."

"He'll learn. And no baby smiles at five days old. Five _weeks_, yes. Five days? No."

"He will smile at me first though. He likes me best."

"Well, I personally hope he smiles at Scarlet first. She deserves it."

Sherlock briefly looked contrite. "Well after her, then me."

"Does Aidan get a look in?"

Sherlock thought about this. "No."

The doorbell rang.

"Give me the baby and go and answer the door," Sherlock said.

"No bloody way!"

Sherlock sighed and stomped downstairs. He returned with Aidan trailing him.

Aidan looked at the sleeping Scarlet and smiled, and then at the sleeping Arthur and grinned.

"He's great, isn't he?" He said.

"The new-dadness hasn't worn off yet then?" John asked.

"No. I think the trouble is that he's such an excellent baby. If he was a bit mediocre, I'd probably get over it all a bit sooner. You know he smiled at me the other day! That's really advanced!"

"Yes, to the point of impossibility!" John laughed. "Here, do you want him."

Aidan clearly did. "No, it's fine though, you keep him for a bit. I can have him later."

Scarlet stirred and rolled over. "Oh, God! Sorry, Aidan, I should have called you but I fell asleep!"

He went over and kissed her lightly. "Are you OK?"

"Yes. Sorry for storming out."

"No, it's fine. I almost stormed out this morning. I mean, I love my Mum and that, but do you think she can be a bit… I don't know. Oppressive?"

Scarlet giggled. "No. She's lovely. And she did a good job with you so I should listen to her. I'm just tired and in a mess."

"Oh. Damn. Well I've booked her into a hotel now."

"You didn't!"

"I just want a bit of space, at home, with my family. Sorry."

"No, that's fine!"

"I can ask her to come back if you want her there to help, but she doesn't seem to be helping as much as… well, sitting there demanding tea and food."

"Oh, she's going to have me down as the daughter-in-law from hell isn't she. She's going to tell all her friends that I didn't get up to cook for her and that the house was a mess."

"And hopefully they'll remind her that she was a new mother once. Now, shall we go home?"

Scarlet nodded at him and he helped her get up.

"Thanks for today, John." Aidan said. "And you Sherlock."

"You're welcome. Any time you want babysitting, just let me know," John said.

"He likes me. He can come and visit any time," Sherlock said.

"Thanks, Dad," Scarlet said.

Aidan picked up the baby carrier and Scarlet picked up the changing bag. The left hand in hand.

John and Sherlock looked at each other and grinned. It was about a minute and a half before the front door opened again and an anguished Aidan reappeared with Scarlet, wide-eyed just behind him.

Aidan gathered Arthur from John's lap.

"We almost got into a cab!" Scarlet squealed. "Why didn't you tell us?"

"Among the many pieces of advice I can give you, Scarlet," John said, "have this one for free. Try not to leave your son lying around places. And bring him back soon!"


	63. Hugs

Hugs

_Scarlet is Four._

Sherlock sat in his armchair and glared at the television. A news item came on and it annoyed him. He flicked it off and dropped the remote on the floor. He stretched out, looked at the ceiling and sighed.

He bit his thumb nail.

He listened to the ticking of the clock.

He glanced at the evidence on the wall and kicked John chair in frustration. Of course it was perfectly obvious_ now_. Now that it didn't matter anymore, it was all as clear as day.

He swore loudly, even though there was no-one to hear.

His thumb started hurting so he moved on to his fingernail.

The front door opened and he contemplated fleeing to his bedroom.

John had taken Scarlet out early. He wasn't sure where, but he had a suspicion that John had paid epic amounts of money to take her to the zoo, simply so they had enough to look at for the whole of the day that he wanted her to be out of the house.

He hated the fact that John thought him so volatile that he had to remove Scarlet.

He hated knowing that John was probably justified. Looking at it objectively, an average, normal person would be stupid to leave their only child anywhere near Sherlock when he had just lost a game.

It was too late to leave. Scarlet bounded in with a new, soft-toy lion on one hand, and a helium balloon in the shape of a giraffe in the other. Her hair was coming loose and escaping curls looked tangled. There was evidence of sweets on her face and ice-cream down her t-shirt.

"Sherlock!" she cried, bounding up to him. "We went to the zoo!"

She smelled of sunblock and heat.

He could see John behind her looking tired and slightly concerned.

There was a part of him who desperately wanted to grab her and make her understand that the world was evil and wicked and nothing in the world, not him, not John, not all the days out in the world could stop the evilness of humanity.

She smiled at him and her teeth were very white, her eyes very blue, and her hair very golden.

"Are you still sad, Sherlock?" she asked, looking concerned for him.

He didn't know what to say. He just stared at her.

She let go of her balloon and dropped her lion. She climbed onto his lap and wrapped her arms around his neck and squeezed him tightly.

His arms went around her and he could feel her small, fragile ribcage, and her heart racing within it. Her hair smelled of sugar.

From nowhere a sob came. Just one, shaking breath before he controlled it and cleared his throat.

Scarlet leaned back and kissed him on his cheek.

"Do you know what we saw, Sherlock?"

He thought of the many animals in the zoo, the layout of their enclosures, the likely route John would take according to Scarlet's preferences and ability to stay alert and lively over various periods of time.

"No," he said. "Tell me what you saw."

"I saw a giraffe! And the looking-after person gave me bread to feed it!"

"Did it like the bread?"

"Yes!" She shifted her weight and settled comfortably on top of him. "And we saw a gorilla too! He was so big! And he looked like Daddy!"

"I bet he did! What else did you see? Were there snakes?" He looked up at John who was looking tired, but relieved.

They nodded once at each other and John went to make tea.

* * *

**This is now the fourth chapter I've started (3 here, 1 for sick fic), and the only one I could begin to call complete. Most of them are angsty and/or annoying. I am in the strangest of strange moods and can't work out what I want to write, but I'll try to get something else up over the weekend.**

**Pip xxx**


	64. Inoculations

Inoculations

_Scarlet is ten weeks old_.

Sherlock darted down the stairs at 221B Baker Street. He could hear Scarlet wailing as he was still on his way down and he opened the door to a harassed John Watson jiggling a red pram. He had bags and dark marks under his eyes and his hair was standing up on end from where he'd been running his hands through it. His lips were pale and his eyes were huge and almost manic.

"What's going on?" Sherlock asked him.

"Nothing, she's fine!" John said. "Sorry I'm late!"

"It's fine." Sherlock lifted the pram inside with him and John came in.

"She's not usually like this!" John said, dropping his rucksack to the floor and rushing to lift the screaming baby up. "I hoped that the pram would calm her down."

"It usually does," Sherlock said, frowning at John. "What's happened to her?"

"Nothing!"

"Is she hungry?"

"No!" John put Scarlet to rest on his shoulder. She quietened slightly, but continued complaining. He rocked her and stroked her, looking miserable.

"What's that on her thigh?" Sherlock asked. "It's blood! She's bleeding!"

"No, she's not! It's old and it's…" John took a deep breath. "Look, she had her inoculations this morning, that's all."

"Oh!" Sherlock said. "Why didn't you just say so?" He went to take her from John, but John held onto her.

"Sherlock, I took my tiny, tiny baby to the doctors, where I let them stab her in the leg, inject her with some hideous stuff, and now she's miserable, she probably feels horrible, and her leg bled!"

"But you had to do that! You did it so she didn't get some hideous disease that would probably kill her."

"I _know_ that!"

"And yet you're feeling guilty?"

"Yes! Because she's _right now_ she's miserable, and I did it!" He sighed and leaned against the wall. "Look, maybe this is a bad idea. Maybe I should just take her home where she's at least got toys and stuff."

"I can see at least three toys under the pram and I'm willing to bet there are more in that enormous bag. Just come upstairs and have some dinner. You don't have to stay long."

"I'm really not hungry."

"Well you know you have to eat something. Mrs Hudson's been cooking for hours, she's determined to feed you and you can't disappoint her." He looked at John's who's resolve was weakening. "Besides, the Turnip's perfectly settled now. She just wanted cuddles and not her pram. Come upstairs."

He picked up John's bag and with a firm hand on his back he pushed him towards the stairs.

"Are you sure?" John asked. "I can't guarantee she'll stay quiet for a whole meal."

"She doesn't have to, John. She's a baby, sometimes babies cry. We'll all cope."

"OK then." He went into the front room. "Sorry I'm late, Mrs Hudson!"

"Oh, John, Love! It's fine! I timed the cooking as if you would be." She came over and kissed him and reached for Scarlet.

"She might cry, Mrs Hudson. She had jabs this morning." He reluctantly let the baby go.

"Oh, the poor love! She's getting heavy, isn't she!"

"Yes. She's growing like a bean." John hovered and stared at Scarlet, his hands twitching to take her back.

Mrs Hudson smiled at him. "Here, take her back a moment, Love, and I'll go and serve the food."

She handed her back over and John almost sagged with relief. She smiled again and bustled over to the kitchen. "Come and help me serve the food, Sherlock. I made a beef Wellington, John!"

"That sounds delicious," John said.

Sherlock patted Scarlet gently on the back and went to obey Mrs Hudson.

John fretted and paced and Scarlet grumbled at him. He looked out the window at the familiar view of Baker Street and around the flat, enjoying the sense of familiarity. The skull was still on the mantelpiece but there was nothing alarming or dangerous left in plain sight. John smiled, touched at the efforts to which Sherlock had gone to childproof his home, even though Scarlet was certainly not capable of getting into mischief at this age.

It was the first time she'd been to this flat. Sherlock had stayed with John until two days after the funeral when he'd gently left without any fuss. There had been regular texts and even two phone calls since then, but John got the impression he was trying to force John to cope. Thus far John had coped. He was exhausted by it all, but he and Scarlet were still in once piece and Scarlet at least had been kept happy and clean.

Sherlock had been quite assertive that John should accept this invitation to dinner though, and had been clear that John needed to come to Baker Street. Again, John was fairly certain he'd done some intensive research into grief and was determined to do as much right as he possibly could.

"Food's ready," Sherlock called from the kitchen and John walked through and sat down with them at the table. He tried to position Scarlet as comfortably as he could. She growled.

"Glass of wine, Doctor?" Mrs Hudson asked.

He glanced at Scarlet. "I'd better not."

"She's not heavy machinery, John," Sherlock pointed out.

"Perhaps a very small glass then," John said.

Sherlock raised his glass. "Absent friends," he said quietly.

John nodded. "And present ones."

They set about their meal, chatting idly while eating. John tried Scarlet in a variety of positions as her general complaints became more and more vehement until she settled into a continual wail while propped on John's shoulder.

"Let me take her for a bit while you eat," Sherlock said.

"I've got her. It's fine."

"Your food's going cold, John."

"You need to eat too!"

"Yes, I do. The difference is that if I faint from hunger people point and laugh and drive me home. If you faint from hunger, Turnip's on her own. Hand her over, I've eaten and you've barely started."

John dallied.

"Is the beef not good?" Mrs Hudson asked.

"No, no! It's delicious, it's just…" he sighed and passed Scarlet to Sherlock who grinned.

"Yes, yes, very clever. Everyone got me to eat." He sat down again and started eating his food, hungrily.

Sherlock rocked and jiggled Scarlet and smiled at her.

"I'm not sure if I've mentioned, John, but I've been doing some research and I really think Turnip is one of the finest examples of her kind there is!"

"Examples of her kind?"

"Yes. The vast majority of babies her age are frightful, insipid specimens. Turnip's not though. She naturally fascinates. There's definitely a brightness to her, there's something about her that attracts the mind."

"Mm. Good."

Scarlet continued to wail.

"Are you sure she's not hungry?"

"She had nearly a full bottle before we left! There's a couple of spares in the bag though if you want to try her with one."

Sherlock carried her out and searched through John's bag with one hand.

"John, you brought three books for her!"

John blushed. "Yeah, sorry. I just thought…"

"No, it's a good thing," Sherlock said, sitting down with Scarlet and handing a bottle to Mrs Hudson to heat up. "Children need stimulus early, and she should certainly get accustomed to being around books. Maybe you should leave some things here for her though. It makes no sense bringing everything each time you come."

"I haven't been before."

"No, but if this does become a habit, and there's no reason why it shouldn't, there could be some things here for Turnip."

John smiled and continued eating. Mrs Hudson gave the bottle to Sherlock and he flicked the lid off and started to feed Scarlet. She greeted the bottle eagerly and fixed a stare at Sherlock as she ate.

"Ah, so she was hungry," John said. "Sorry. I didn't…" He broke off and sighed.

"You fed her before you came out. It's not your fault that your daughter's contrary." He smiled at John. "Though arguably, she may have inherited the contrariness directly from you. I'd watch out for signs of 'stubborn' too. We might have to train her out of those particular traits."

John smiled. "Might we indeed?"

"Yes. I wouldn't worry overly though, I'm sure she's picked up some of Mary's more delightful attributes to counterbalance some of your weaknesses."

"Yep, that's exactly how it works."

"Sherlock, do you want me to take her for a bit?" Mrs Hudson asked. "You could eat too."

"Nope, I've got her now. I'm not going to relinquish my turn so easily. You were right, John, she doesn't want this bottle. She's just playing with it now." He put it down on the table and turned Scarlet so she was sitting on his knee, facing him. He smiled at her and she waved a bit. "What are we going to do with you, Turnip? Shall we read you a little book? What about teddy-boo? Do you want to play teddy-boo?"

Her face crumpled and she wailed again

"No teddy-boo? OK, shall we just go and have a little walk in the living room? Just a little walk."

He stood up, ignoring the smirks from both John and Mrs Hudson and carried her through to the living room. He propped her on his shoulder in her preferred position, and paced around, stroking and soothing her while she settled into a steady grizzle.

She quietened and he listened to John and Mrs Hudson talking about baby clothes and bottles and how often Scarlet was waking at night now. Far too often in Sherlock's opinion and he kissed her head and gently whispered that she really should let her daddy sleep at nights.

She hiccupped, stiffened and threw up a vast quantity of curdled milk onto his shirtfront.

"Ah," he said.

"Sorry! Sorry!" John called, getting up and rushing over. "Sorry!" he said again as he took her from Sherlock.

"No, it's fine!" Sherlock said. "It's fascinating! How does a being that small produce such a vast amount of vomit?"

John smiled. "Go and change. I'll sort her out."

Scarlet was completely unmoved by the event. If anything she seemed slightly calmer now and had stopped whining in favour of a quick game of 'where did I leave my left ear? Oh here it is! I wonder if it still hurts if I pull at it…'

Sherlock nipped to the bathroom to wipe himself down and then went to find a clean shirt. By the time he got downstairs again, Mrs Hudson had cleared the table and had disappeared back to her flat, and John was kneeling on the floor, putting Scarlet into a clean pair of dungarees.

"I'd better take her home," John said. "Before she causes any more chaos."

"Your definition of chaos is substantially different to mine. Stay for a bit, I need to tell her about the case I did last week anyway."

"You might have to wait for a bit, she looks like she's nearly asleep."

"Then you should stay until she wakes up."

"She's nowhere to sleep here!"

"She's got her pram."

"She doesn't like sleeping in her pram."

Sherlock had seen Scarlet sleep in her pram on at least a dozen occasions in her short life. He sighed and squatted down next to John.

"John, if you want to go, that's fine. We'll go down now and call a cab for you, but I need you to understand that I really don't mind having a sleeping baby and her father in my flat for a couple of hours. If I minded, I'd ask you to leave, if I'm working, I'll tell you not to visit, but right now, I have an afternoon off and nothing else to do. You honestly don't have to stay if you don't want to, but you don't have to leave on my account."

John stared fixedly at the coffee table.

"Seriously," Sherlock said to him, smiling. "When have you ever known me shy about ordering people to get out of my flat? I threw Mycroft out half an hour before you arrived and would happily do so three times before breakfast."

John smiled and blinked.

"Fine, I'll go and get her pram." He sniffed as he headed downstairs and Sherlock scooped Scarlet up and sat down on his armchair with her. She didn't wake up as he settled her onto his lap. He grabbed the remote control and flicked the TV on.

John came back in with the pram and looked at them.

"You have no intention of putting her in the pram to sleep, do you?" he said.

"Nope. I've got one of those James Bond films you like. Shall I put it on?"

"Yeah, if you like." He sat down on the sofa and stared at the TV. He was asleep before the opening credits ended.

He woke up three hours later with a start. The room was dimly lit with just the lamps.

"Sorry, I must have dozed off for a bit!"

"Didn't notice," Sherlock said.

He was still sitting on the armchair with Scarlet, but the television had been turned off. She was awake now and sat on his lap, looking at a large reference book in front of them. There was an empty bottle on the chair arm.

"You found something for her to read then?" John said.

"Yes. We finished the books you brought for her and she thought they were a bit boring, so we started on some of mine."

"Oh. I'm glad she knows her own mind on such things."

"Yep. She clearly gets discernment from Mary."

John snorted. "Do you want a cup of tea?"

"Yes please. You should probably think about making a move after that though. It's getting a bit late."

"Really? I thought you were going to push and cajole me to move back in here with you!"

"Move in here? Don't be silly, John. It's far too early for that."

John stopped on his way to the kitchen and turned around with a frown. He came to lean on the back of his armchair and looked at Sherlock. Sherlock glanced up at him.

"OK," John said. "I want to know the exact titles of the books you've been reading."

Sherlock frowned. "All of them? Or just the ones I've read with Turnip because the former is quite an extensive list."

"Don't be funny. You've been reading up on the grieving process, haven't you?"

"I've done no such thing!"

"So you've just downloaded some programme into your hard-drive which outlines exactly what you should say and do with me in every situation, have you?"

"I may have talked to some people."

"People?"

"Internet people. So it was in fact, mostly typing. Some of them talked a load of old rubbish, but some of them seemed remarkably intelligent."

"Huh."

"Obviously, if you wanted to move back in here tomorrow you'd be more than welcome. You and Turnip both. We might need to think about the logistics a bit, because this is also my main place of work, but if you were sure that it was what you wanted to do, then that' what we'll do. In my personal opinion, it would be a bit too soon, but I'm happy to hear your arguments in favour."

John looked at him a long while and then slowly shook his head.

"You know, you can be very strange when you let people on the internet tell you what to say."

"Fine, whatever, make me that tea now. Turnip and I are just finishing this chapter on the diseases of the blood, and then you'll be free to remove her."

John sighed at him but nodded and went to make the tea.


	65. The Blue Paint Incident

The Blue Paint Incident

_Scarlet is supposed to be nine, but I'm changing it to eight. (I'll change the 'puppy' chapter to match at some point.)_

Sherlock let himself in and climbed the stairs checking his watch. It was just after six, and he wondered whether he'd be early enough to eat dinner with John and Scarlet. He slowed down as he got to the top of the stairs and saw the state of the hallway.

There was quite a large amount of royal blue poster paint all over the walls. In some places it looked as though care had been taken to outline the palm trees, and others had been carefully painted entirely in silhouette, at some point attention had wandered and swirls and daisy-chains appeared and a checkerboard pattern appeared along with a long swish where Scarlet had clearly been discovered and surprised.

There was a tub of soapy water on the floor, and evidence of someone having tried, but failed, to wash some of the paint off.

He could hear Scarlet making crying sounds in her bedroom and he looked into the living room where John was sitting on the sofa, looking at him.

He went into the front room and hung up his coat.

"So…" he said.

"Yes," John replied.

He sat down too, kicked off his shoes and took his watch off.

"Good case?" John asked.

"Not bad. I've just finished."

"Mm. Worth writing up?"

"No, not this time."

There was the sound of footsteps coming downstairs and Scarlet appeared in the doorway wearing her pyjamas. She shuffled a bit and sniffed taking little, short breaths, with absolutely no tears.

"Yes?" John said. "Can I help you?"

She looked at the floor and started mumbling something.

"I'm sorry, I can't hear you," John said. "Talk normally."

"I said I'd _like_ to make a sorry card for Mrs Hudson, but I can't because _someone_ took all my art stuff away."

John stared at the coffee table while he centred himself.

"Go back to your room," he said calmly.

Her eyes briefly flickered towards Sherlock. Not briefly enough though, and John saw.

"I said upstairs!" he snapped. "Go now!"

She turned and ran.

Sherlock grinned, and then on seeing John's face, he tried hard not to grin. Then he just grinned again.

"It's not funny!" John insisted.

"It is a bit funny!"

"No, it's not, Sherlock! She's absolutely out of control at the moment and you, _you_ are doing nothing to help!"

"Of course I am!"

John sighed and shook his head.

"It's just a bit of paint, John," Sherlock said. "It can be repapered and no-one will know the difference."

"_I_ will." John threw himself back against the chair and sighed. "And it didn't need repapering until my horrible child got at it!"

"She's not horrible!"

"She told Mrs Hudson she was a 'silly old bat, overreacting about everything'."

"Oh."

"Yes. And also I can't help but remember someone else using those exact words just last week."

Sherlock's eyes widened slightly in recollection.

"Well I wouldn't have done if I was eight!"

"Really? You were a polite eight-year-old?"

Sherlock thought.

"You know this conversation didn't used to be about me. Let's get back to your horrible child."

"I think I'm the only one allowed to call her that," John said.

"That seems fair; especially as I don't think she is anyhow."

"No, neither do I really." John sighed again. "Look, Sherlock, you know I like you, well, most of the time, and I'm used the you-ness of you and all that…"

"This doesn't sound like it's going anywhere good."

"Sorry. I just thought, is there any chance that you could rein it in a bit. Just in front of Scarlet?"

Sherlock looked at him and frowned. "I do!"

"Yeah, I know but… just a little bit more?"

Sherlock sighed. "I honestly try, John. I'm sorry, I'll try harder to think about what I say when she's in the room but sometimes I just… Look, not everything gets passed by my brain before I say it. Sometimes words just happen."

John frowned. "Not usually, Sherlock."

"Well most people's brains aren't as busy as mine! They get the opportunity to think about everything they say!"

John smiled.

"Yeah, I know. And I'm sorry, I know you do try and you do work hard. I'm sorry, I know I shouldn't ask for any more. You're good with her. I've seen it."

Sherlock frowned. "Really?"

"Yes. Really. It's just I'm a bit depressed right now, and I'm hungry, and I made myself feel guilty by yelling at her quite loudly and it would be really nice to have someone else to blame."

"I don't think you should worry about it too much. She's a child, she did something stupid, she repeated something inappropriate that she'd heard, and she's very sorry now."

"Mm."

"Mm?"

"I'm not convinced about the sorry yet. I think she's prepared to say anything to get out of trouble."

"Isn't that the same as sorry?"

"No."

"Oh."

John sighed again. "Do you want a cup of tea?"

"I'd love one."

"Scarlet's having beans on toast for tea, but I'm having a take away when she's gone to bed. Which would you like?"

"Take away."

"Fine." He heaved himself off the sofa and headed to the kitchen.

Sherlock watched him for a moment and then quietly went upstairs. Scarlet's door was open and she was sitting on the bed, picking at her duvet cover. She'd stopped pretending to cry, but she stuck her bottom lip out and sniffed as she saw him.

He walked into her room and stood looking at her for a moment. She squirmed.

"Scarlet, there's no excuse for being rude to Mrs Hudson."

"But you…"

"No. Scarlet there's no excuse for it, not from me, and certainly not from you. Mrs Hudson picked you up from school and brought you home and looked after you! I'm guessing she let you have cake as well…"

"She gave me biscuits."

"Well there you are. And I'll bet she made you a milkshake rather than just milk didn't she? So she was kind to you, and you thought you'd be rude in return."

The bottom lip came out again.

"There's something else too," Sherlock said. "Scarlet, don't repeat things I say to people, not if you know for sure it's rude. People don't like me, mostly because I'm rude to them. You don't want to be like me."

"Dad likes you."

"Yes but your dad's an idiot."

"I like you too."

"Well you're young and naïve. And that thing I just said about your dad, that's one of those things I say that you shouldn't repeat."

"Why?"

"Because it would make him upset."

"So you're allowed to upset him, but I'm not?"

"That's right."

"Why?"

"Oh hell, I'm no good at this."

He sighed and sat down on her bed. She shuffled until she was sitting next to him and leaned against his arm.

"OK, let's think about this. Do you really think your dad's an idiot?"

"I think he was mean to take my art things away."

"But do you think he's stupid? Really? He's a doctor and a teacher and he beats me at chess all the time, so do you really think he's stupid?"

"No."

"So when I say he's stupid, you think I'm wrong?"

She thought about this. "I don't know."

"It's OK if you think I'm wrong, Scarlet. Sometimes I am."

"Then yes."

"Good. And do you really think Mrs Hudson is an old bat? Or do you actually think she's a lovely person who's very kind to you?"

"She's kind," Scarlet squeaked, and her face crumpled and she cried properly now.

"Yes. She's very kind. And if I ever say she isn't then I'm very wrong to do so, and you shouldn't copy me for that reason. Only copy people if you think they're right."

Scarlet cried more and Sherlock put his arm around her for a hug.

"Right, I'm going downstairs now before your dad finds me in here." He kissed her on the head and quietly left.

He just about managed not to scream when he bumped straight into John who was standing just outside her door.

"God, you can be quiet!" he whispered.

"I was a soldier," John whispered back. "Now go downstairs you soppy sod."

Sherlock did so and John called Scarlet downstairs for food.

She came and ate quietly without complaint and though she looked at the box of art equipment longingly, she didn't ask for it back. When she'd finished she came in to see John again.

"Can I go downstairs and say properly sorry to Mrs Hudson please?"

He nodded at her. "Quickly though, and then straight up to bed."

Sherlock glanced at him after she'd gone.

"See, properly sorry now," he said.

"Yep."

"I did that. I'm just saying."


	66. Fireworks night

**Prompted by a non friend. **

Fireworks Night.

_Scarlet is three._

"John? John!"

John stuck his head out of the kitchen doorway to see Sherlock running up the stairs.

"What is it? I'm right here."

"I've got us tickets for Saturday."

"Oh. OK. Good. Tickets for what exactly?"

"For the firework display in Regent's Park."

John grimaced. "Oh hell, Sherlock! I wish you'd have asked me first!"

"What? What is it? I'm being helpful! This is helpful!"

John sighed. "You want to be helpful? Fine." He pulled Sherlock into the kitchen, pulled his coat off him, pushed him into a chair and gave him a potato and a potato peeler.

"You want me to peel it?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes! No flies on you, are there! Then do the same with the rest there, then cut them into chip shapes."

"Ship shape?"

"No! Chip! Why would you make them into ships?"

"Why would I make them into chips? Why don't we just buy chips?"

"I did! I just bought them in potato form! Now get on with it." He went back to the hob to start frying the onions.

Sherlock started peeling the potato, thoughtfully.

"Why are you so upset about the fireworks thing?"

"I'm not! I'm not, I'm just… I wish you'd have asked first, that's all."

"Why?"

"Because… I'm not sure whether taking Scarlet to a fireworks display is such a good idea."

"Why?"

"Because it will be late, so she'll be tired and she's not at her best when tired. And there will be loads of crowds too, and I worry that she's going to get lost…"

"She can nap in the day and I'll keep her on my shoulders or something."

"She might find the fireworks intimidating."

"Intimidating? How? That's ridiculous! She's three, and she likes colourful sparkly things, and she likes noisy funny things, so how will she possibly not like colourful sparkly things that are noisy and funny too? And there'll be hot dogs and candy floss and it'll be fun!"

"Well, just don't mention it to her in advance, will you. She'll get too excited and I don't want her to be sad if it doesn't happen."

"If it doesn't happen? It's Guy Fawkes! It happens every fifth of November! It's fireworks night!"

"What's firewords night?"

They turned to find an angelic looking three year old watching and listening.

"God, it's like she's got a bloody location sensor for conversations she shouldn't hear," John muttered.

Sherlock smiled. "Fireworks night, Turnip. With a K."

"What's firewords night?"

Sherlock lifted her to sit on the table so that he could talk to her while he peeled.

"OK, fire_works_ night is a night of festivities to commemorate the failure of Guy Fawkes to blow up the House of Lords. You see he was a Catholic and at the time Catholics were oppressed by the king and the state, so this was his way of making a point. Though in actual fact, it wasn't even really his idea, he was just the one who happened to be guarding the gunpowder, that's like a big bomb, beneath the building."

Scarlet looked at him blankly. "Why are you cutting those potatoes?"

"Because your dad told me to. Now, Guy Fawkes…"

"They look like chips."

"What? Oh, yes. That's because when they're cooked they'll be chips. Now, Guy Fawkes was caught before the gunpowder bomb went off, and he was taken to be tortured, which is when…"

"She doesn't need to know what that is, Sherlock!"

"OK, so he told the guards about the other people involved and they were all arrested, and he was ordered to be hung drawn and quartered, which is…"

"Doesn't need to know!"

"Well, anyway, he avoided that because…"

"Once again!"

"Well anyway, that's why we celebrate Guy Fawkes night. We celebrate the fact that he didn't manage to blow up parliament."

She wrinkled her nose. "That's not very nice!"

Sherlock sat back and looked at her. "No, in a lot of ways, it isn't very nice. And sometimes, I think that actually, parliament needs to be blown up a bit. But anyway, there are bonfires and fireworks and toffee apples and hot-dogs, and it's _brilliant._"

"What are firewords?"

"_Works_, Turnip. With a K. Fireworks are made of…"

John turned around and came to look at her.

"Fireworks, Poppet, are like twinkly colourful stars, and sometimes the go bang, and sometimes the go wheeeee."

Her face lit up and she gasped.

"Can we have some?" she asked.

"No, not here, because fireworks are very dangerous and Sherlock's a liability. But we can go and watch someone do them safely in the park if you really want to."

"Tonight?"

"No," Sherlock told her. "It's on Saturday."

"Is today Saturday?"

"No, otherwise when you said tonight, I'd have said 'yes'."

"It is tonight?" she asked.

"No, it's Saturday."

"What's Saturday?"

"Three more sleeps, honey," John said, intervening. "And you have to be really, really good, because only good, grown-up girls get to stay up to go to fireworks displays, OK?"

She nodded. He picked her up, kissed her on the forehead and sent her off to play.

"God it's weird watching you two get stuck in a logic, anti-logic loop. How are those spuds coming?"

"I think I've finished. So you're OK with us going then? On Saturday?"

"Yeah. Yes, I suppose. You'll help look after Scarlet though, won't you?"

"Of course I will! I always look after Turnip! You know I do! And, by the way, I'm not a liability. Damn."

"What?"

"I've cut my finger."

"How? You finished the potatoes already!"

"I was playing with the knife."

oOo

Saturday dawned. Scarlet, not being a child to let things go, had asked hourly if it was Firewords night yet.

"I _told_ you!" John had grumbled.

Sherlock had ignored him and had occupied the waiting time by looking up fireworks on the computer with Scarlet, by drawing fireworks with Scarlet, by painting and glittering fireworks with Scarlet, and being dissuaded from actually attempting to make a firework with Scarlet at the kitchen table.

Nap time hadn't exactly been a roaring success. Scarlet would not stay in bed on her own, and when Sherlock went to lie down with her, they ended up talking about the various different fireworks they might see and discussing all the sundries and treats that might be on offer at the display.

By the time they were getting ready to go, it would be fair to say she was actually quivering with excitement.

John tutted, sighed and rolled his eyes about it while he tried to get her dressed in suitable clothes while Sherlock mostly got in the way.

They were finally off.

Scarlet impressed everyone by eating a hot dog, a toffee apple and a large quantity of candy-floss. John watched as she and Sherlock had a 'how many toasted marshmallows can we eat!' contest. He only intervened when things started looking a little precarious.

Finally there was an announcement that people needed to make their way to the display area. There were many warnings about keeping children well controlled and accompanied by adults at all time. Sherlock lifted Scarlet onto his shoulders while he pushed his way to the front of the crowd.

"We can be further back, Sherlock!" John told him.

"No, we have to be at the front! Besides we have a child with us."

"Yeah. She's on your shoulders, she'll be fine."

Sherlock was not to be dissuaded, and he pushed until he was right against the barrier. John muttered apologies to frowning people in his wake.

"Are they coming?" Scarlet asked.

"Yes! In a second, Turnip!"

She waited.

"Are they coming _soon_?"

"Yes, nearly there now."

She wriggled on her perch.

Finally there was a quiet shooting 'whoosh' followed by a crackling and the sky was full of gleaming golden stars.

"See! Look! Look! Isn't it pretty!" Sherlock said.

"Shock, I want to get down," she replied.

He put her down.

"I want tuddles," she told him, and he picked her up again.

"Look, another one! See how pretty!"

Sliver and pink flowers filled the sky.

Scarlet wriggled to try to get closer to Sherlock and looked with a nervous eye.

The next one went up with a loud squeal and she gasped and buried her face against him.

"No it's fine, Turnip!" he told her. "Look, this one's made heart shapes!" he frowned. "How do they do that?"

He looked at John who was very still, and slightly pale. He frowned and shook his head.

Roman candles started up on platforms at each side of the enclosure.

"Look, Scarlet! These aren't noisy ones! They're just pretty! Look at the silver and gold!"

Scarlet peeped out from his chest and settled to watch the column of stars. As they died down, squealing sparks flew up from them and popped. She hid her face again.

"Don't worry, Moppet!" John said, looking wide-eyed and manic. "They're just pretty and noisy, but they won't hurt you." He shuffled his feet and clenched and unclenched his hands.

"Maybe we should go," Sherlock said, looking hugely disappointed.

"No! It's fine! I don't want her to be scared of them! She'll see they're harmless in a bit!"

A huge firework wailed up into the air, and burst into a line of stars, each one exploding with a fast, rattling cracking.

"Hell, bloody fuck!" John muttered and he ducked out of view.

"It's fine, Scarlet," Sherlock murmured, stroking her back. "That one was a noisy one, but there will be more pretty ones now.

Out of the silent black sky, a huge bang echoed and blue and silver rain poured down in front of them. Scarlet didn't see it though; she had her face firmly buried against Sherlock's coat. A quiet weight hit him in the top of his back and he realised that John was leaning his forehead against him.

Sherlock briefly felt like the filling in a frightened-Watson sandwich.

Still, the fireworks were pretty.

oOo

They walked home as briskly as they could, hampered slightly as John stopped for a second each time firework went off from one of the yards or gardens that they were passing.

He breathed a sigh of relief when they finally closed 221B's door behind them.

"OK, give her here, I'll take her up to bed," he said.

"I can do it!"

"I know, but I want to."

Sherlock carefully passed the sleeping girl over to him, and John headed off with her. Sherlock went into the kitchen to await his return.

"She's spark out." John said, coming down again. "She didn't even wake up when I put her pyjamas on her. What are you doing?" John frowned at Sherlock who was stirring a saucepan on the hob.

"I'm making cocoa. It's traditional after a firework display."

"What? You?"

"Yes, me! I can make cocoa." He poured it into two mugs and passed one over to John.

"What, no marshmallows?"

Sherlock groaned. "I think it's safe to say I never want to see another marshmallow again."

John grinned. "For a moment there, I thought you were going to see a lot of marshmallows again, very quickly."

"For a moment there, I thought that too." He sat down at the table. "A question occurs," he said.

"What's that?" John asked, sitting down with him and sipping at his drink.

"Why on Earth didn't you say 'actually, Sherlock, I'm scared of fireworks, so I'd rather not go.'?"

"I'm not scared of them!"

"Oh really?"

"No! Well not really! I mean, if one firework goes off, it tends to make me jump, then that's done and I know it's all fine. It's just when that happens over and over and over it makes me a bit…"

"Scared?"

"Tense."

"Ah. Tense. Yes, I see it now."

John shook his head. "I'm honestly not scared in the conventional way that someone might be scared of fireworks."

"Not _conventionally_ scared."

"No. I just feel stressed, that's all. Seriously, it's nothing to worry about."

"OK, so why didn't you say 'fireworks make me stressed – I'd rather not go.'?"

"You wanted to go."

"What?"

"You wanted to go. You _really_ wanted to go. Seriously, we've had Easter, Christmas, Pancake day, Halloween and all manner of other festivals and you've barely been aware of them, let alone looking forward to them with a willingness to join in. Then you talked about Guy Fawkes like it was the most exciting and best day ever. It seemed a bit mean to say no."

Sherlock smiled and drank more of his cocoa.

"It's Mycroft's fault."

"It usually is. How does he connect to this though?"

"He took me to the fireworks display on the green when I was four. I was supposed to be in bed, and he was supposed to be doing homework and we'd both been categorically banned from going to the display. He turned up in my room and we went out via the servant's door and went up to see it. I don't know whether it was the fireworks, or the illicit sugar on sale or the fact that it was all just Not Allowed, but it was the best night I could remember having. Even better than the time that I lured the fox into the shed and kept him for a pet for a week."

John smiled. "Maybe part of it was the sudden realisation that your brother wasn't actually the cold demon you thought he was."

Sherlock nodded, wrapped in nostalgia. "We did it every year until he went to Cambridge. Actually, I continued to sneak out after that though. I felt I ought to stop after University, but I've missed it. I really hoped Turnip might like it."

"Oh, she did!"

"No she didn't! Were you watching the same child?"

"I wasn't particularly watching anything. But look, she is actually a child who likes to be scared. She's also a child who likes to get big cuddles. And she's also a child who rarely sees the negative of anything and by tomorrow morning, she'll have re-written the entire event and she will have enjoyed all of it, and she will want to go again tomorrow."

"There is another display tomorrow…"

"Which we will absolutely not be going to."

"Spoilsport."

"There'll be another one next year."

"That's ages."

"Yeah. A whole year. Perhaps if you start enjoying some of the other events of the year, time will pass quicker."

Scarlet appeared in the doorway looking bleary eyed and vague.

"Is it firewords night yet?"

"Yes, we've been, Turnip. You were there!"

John grinned. "Do you remember all the twinkly stars and flowers?"

She nodded and smiled. "They were _beautiful!_ And I saw a horsey one!_"_ she said.

"Yes, I'm sure you did. Come on now, bedtime."

John carried her back up the stairs to her bed.

**Happy Guy Fawkes all! Be safe!**

**Pip xxx**


	67. Denial

Denial.

_Scarlet is four._

Sherlock shifted position on the sofa and flexed his toes into the far cushion. A dull ache flashed through his left shoulder, and he deduced that he'd been motionless for at least half an hour. He turned onto his side and sat upright, rolling his shoulders to relieve the stiffness.

He heard the gentle sound of muttering from the kitchen.

"…And then the mermaid flew into the sky." The pitch of the voice altered so it was squeaky and high. "No, mermaids don't fly!" Scarlet's voice returned to its usual tone. "_This_ mermaid flies, because she's brilliant and a very special girl who's daddy loves her very much."

Sherlock smiled as the muttering continued. He had a sudden pang of hunger, which he was happily banishing to a distant corner of his mind, when he realised that if _he_ was hungry, the chances were that the energetic and hollow-legged four-year-old was hungry too.

He had Scarlet. Scarlet was _his_ right now. Technically, she'd been left in Mrs Hudson's care, and she'd picked her up from school and walked her home, listening to the endless inane babble. When they'd arrived home, Sherlock had convinced her that the job would have been his if John had known that his case was over, though he didn't add; 'and if I'd remembered what time school finished'. Mrs Hudson had been dubious, but in the face of Scarlet's joy that Sherlock was home, and there, and tall, and brilliant, and _home_, she'd relented and let him carry her upstairs.

When they'd got upstairs, he'd been utterly unable to distract her with cartoons or books, and had finally allowed her to get her 'making box' out, and he'd then reclined on the sofa and blocked out the noise and the increasing mess of glue and glitter. He didn't _think_ he'd fallen asleep. He certainly hoped he would have noticed if Scarlet had called for help. He felt a slightly guilty pang.

"Are you OK in there, Turnip?" he called.

The monologue broke off briefly. "Yes!"

Sherlock smiled, stretched and pulled himself up. He caught sight of himself in the mirror and rubbed his face before looking around the room. The making box had been abandoned, and, still smiling, Sherlock followed the steady trail of sequins and pencils into the kitchen. When he got there, the smile slid from his face.

"Scarlet! What have you done?"

She turned her bright blue eyes on him.

"Nothing." She turned back to her teddy bear and hideous plastic fashion-doll.

Sherlock looked around at the chaos in the kitchen. The water in the sink was level with the overflow hole, which was thankfully doing its job. There was still a fair amount of water on the floor though. There were five slices of bread on the worktop in a nicely squared pattern, and a further one on the kitchen table, partly submerged in a lake of milk. There was a small amount of milk still in the open bottle, which had been placed with precision at the corner of the table, ready to be knocked to the floor the moment somebody stumbled or flailed unpredictably. Sherlock picked it up and glanced around for the lid.

"You've made an awful mess!" he said.

"No, I haven't."

Sherlock waded through the puddle on the floor to the fridge to replace the milk and then splashed over to the sink. He plunged his hand into the cold water and pulled out the plug. He wiped his hands on a tea towel and turned back to the table. Scarlet was colouring on a sheet of paper and still chatting to her toys.

"You've spilled the jam," Sherlock complained.

"No, I didn't."

"Yes, you did, Turnip! Look at the table!"

The jam jar was on its side in a sticky, shiny pool of jam. Stuck in the middle of the jam-slick, there was a table knife and a teaspoon.

"I didn't do it." Scarlet said. She looked up at him with an expression of complete tranquillity.

Sherlock stopped and stared at her.

"I know you spilled the jam. Look, there's the jam, spilled, and there's you, covered in jam. He frowned at her and looked at the table again. "Oh, no! You didn't eat the jam straight from the jar, did you? We're not allowed to do that! I know I'm not allowed to do that, which means that you're probably not allowed to do that either."

Scarlet shook her head. "I didn't eat the jam," she said.

Sherlock stared again. "No, you don't understand. I _know_ you spilled the jam, and I'm almost completely sure you ate the jam too."

"It wasn't me."

Sherlock pulled a chair out and sat down opposite her.

"No, listen, Scarlet; all the evidence points to the fact that you spilled the jam. All of it. There is no other plausible explanation."

Scarlet glanced at the jam on the table.

"It wasn't me. It was Tansy."

"Who the hell's… I mean; who's Tansy?"

"Tansy's my friend."

"Is Tansy at school with you?"

Scarlet turned her gaze to the window while she thought about this.

"Sometimes," she confirmed eventually.

"How is she there sometimes?" Sherlock asked. "She's either at school with you, or she's not. I mean, she might occasionally be ill but the balance of probability is that she attends more often than she doesn't."

Scarlet looked at him and sighed. "Sometimes she's there, and sometimes she's not."

Sherlock shook his head.

"OK, that's not relevant right now. The point is; she was not at the flat and she didn't spill the jam."

"But the jam was spilled," she pointed out with charming logic.

"Yes, you spilled it," Sherlock said, refusing to be disarmed by her bright eyes and whimsical expression.

"No, I didn't."

Sherlock paused and thought.

"I'm not angry that you spilled the jam," he said.

"I didn't spill the jam."

"I am beginning to get a little bit angry that you're lying to me." It occurred to him that he wasn't the least bit angry, but was fascinated by this new turn of events. He'd always been convinced of the utter honesty of the child. He wondered why he was even pressing the point, and assumed the only cause was that it seemed like the sort of thing John would do, and, currently, Scarlet was _his._

"I'm not lying," Scarlet said.

"Scarlet, you've got jam around your mouth, you've got jam up your arm and you've got jam in your hair, for crying out loud. You've quite clearly been eating the jam."

"No, I haven't." She shook her head gently for emphasis.

"Please don't start telling lies. I don't like people who tell lies."

"You tell lies. You telled Daddy that you didn't break the kettle, but you did, because I sawed you."

"_Told_ daddy and _saw_ me, and that was different."

"Why was it different?"

Her eyes fixed on him, wide and unspoilt, waiting for the explanation as to why his lies were acceptable but hers weren't.

The door downstairs closed with a bang, and John called out that he was home.

Sherlock's voice dropped. "It just is, OK. Right, let's just clean this all up." He grabbed the knife and tossed it into the sink, calculating how much of the mess he'd be able to tidy before John got up the stairs, and which were the most offensive areas that needed attention.

"Sherlock, sometimes when your nose runs, what comes out isn't called snot, it's called bleed."

Sherlock stood still, jammy spoon in hand.

"It's called blood. Who had a nose-bleed?"

"Aaron."

"OK, we're getting off the point a bit. Do you think you could help me clear up?"

"I started it already. I did the washing up. Tansy said I should."

"Yes but…"

John appeared through the kitchen door.

"Hello, Moppet! Did you have a lovely…" John broke off to look around the kitchen. He looked furiously at Sherlock. "What on earth happened here? Did you feed her jam from the jar? What in God's name were you thinking?"

"I didn't!"

"Of course you did! You're stood there holding a spoon, and my daughter is covered with jam! It doesn't take a genius to work out what happened here."

"But…"

"No! No buts! Come on, Scarlet, let's go and put you in the bath."

Scarlet hopped down from the chair and followed him to the bathroom looking every inch the dutiful child.

Sherlock pouted and started cleaning.

oOo

Later, after John had read at Scarlet and cuddled her to sleep for no reason other than he'd had a bad day and needed a cuddle, he walked down the stairs to face up to Sherlock.

Sherlock was sitting in his armchair in the pristine living room, wearing his second-best dressing gown and an injured expression. John glanced into the kitchen and found that that was gleaming too. He sighed.

"Do you want a cup of tea?"

"No." Sherlock sniffed.

John sighed again and sat down opposite Sherlock.

"I'm sorry I accused you of feeding her jam from the jar."

Sherlock's eyes flickered up to him.

"Scarlet's explained it all," John said, "and I'm sorry I accused you without thinking."

Sherlock sat forward, delighted. "She told you she'd eaten the jam? She wouldn't admit it to me!"

"Well, no, those weren't her precise words. There was a fairly impressive story involving imps that then turned into pixies, who helped her make the dinner and do the washing up all by herself, and somewhere among all of it, I worked out that she'd tried to make you a jam sandwich and became side-tracked."

"She told me Tansy did it."

"Ah. I see."

"I've been thinking about that," Sherlock said, looking concerned. "Do you think that we… _you_, should chat to her teacher about this Tansy character. I don't think she's a good influence. She's clearly the source of all this dishonesty." Sherlock frowned. "What? Why are you laughing?"

"Oh, no reason. I have to admit that I quite like Tansy myself. She's quite the little character. Scarlet's thick as thieves with her, which is nice, and she's actually quite useful for keeping Scarlet out of trouble."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, Scarlet's a little bit less forward when Tansy's around. Instead of eating a crayon, she'll say; 'Tansy thinks she might eat a crayon. What would happen if she did?' or 'Tansy might be a bit frightened of Miss Streeter when she's cross, so I make her be good,' or; 'Tansy nearly ran right out in the road; but I stopped her.' I don't think there's any specific harm in her. I admit that I'm a bit wary of; 'I didn't wet the bed, Tansy did," but if she feels the need for an alibi at the moment, then I'm going to let her have one. I don't know why she's suddenly insecure; it could be starting school's been a bit tricky for her, or it could just be that she's going through a phase, but I don't think there's anything to be gained by forcing her out of it."

"Tansy's imaginary," Sherlock said blankly.

"Yep. Our very own, bone fide, imaginary friend. Actually, I was thinking that maybe you should borrow her from time to time."

"Me? Why? I don't need an imaginary friend. I've got a real one."

"Yeah, but I'm not always around, and even when I am I'm not always aware of what you're thinking." Sherlock grunted in response. "I just think, if you were to say; 'Tansy's thinking of testing the effect of sulphuric acid on a live and active kettle-lead, do I think that's a good idea for Tansy?" we might not go through as many kettles as we have of late."

"That wasn't me," Sherlock said. "It was like that when I got there."

"Yes, you see. Tansy clearly did it. Now, have you finished sulking enough for a cup of tea yet?"

"Mm. Thank you. We're a bit low on milk though. I'll send Tansy out for some more later."


	68. Tantrums

**Tantrums**

_Scarlet is nearly four. It's a couple of months after they moved into Baker Street._

Sherlock paused and looked up. A familiar sound drifted through the open windows on the pleasant July day. It was the sound of high-pitched screaming and shouting.

"I don' love you no more!" was followed by; "I wish you weren't my dad!"

Sherlock flushed slightly, utterly distracted. He cleared his throat and tried to recapture his train of thought.

It didn't work. The street door opened and the louder sound of Scarlet screaming drifted through the house. She'd abandoned any attempts to form coherent sentences and had just started screaming and wailing. There was a vague sound of; 'Nonononono!' but other than that, it was senseless wailing.

John finally appeared in the doorway. He was carrying Scarlet under one arm with her facing away from him, presumably so she couldn't just kick at him. His second hand was being used to prevent himself dropping her as she flailed and kicked her legs anyway. One of his bare arms showed the signs of a small and thankfully quite inept person scratching and pinching at it. Sherlock bit his lower lip. John stopped and looked into the lounge. He was sweating slightly, hard lipped and furrow browed. His cheeks were already flushed from the exertion, and now they also blushed from embarrassment.

He nodded once at Sherlock, and then carried up the stairs with his noisy, hot and violent bundle, and Sherlock heard him go into Scarlet's room and close the door.

He turned and looked across to the sofa where an elderly couple sat hand in hand with matching looks of faint horror across their faces.

Sherlock cleared his throat again.

"Sorry, you were saying; your cleaner definitely doesn't have access to the dark-room…"


	69. A Day Out  Part One

_Scarlet is four_

A Day Out

John lay very quietly, and very still, on his back. He could sense Scarlet there, still in the bedroom, and indeed still on the bed, but she'd gone very quiet. He knew that he was going to have to risk it and either speak, or open his eyes. He opted for the latter, and, when his vision cleared enough to see her, he confirmed that she was still in one piece and still in the room with him.

Unfortunately, she'd seen him move.

"Are you awake now, Daddy?" She bounced closer to him causing the mattress to bounce and sway in a frankly hideous fashion. "Can we go and have breakfast now?"

John winced and groaned and closed his eyes again. When he could risk opening his mouth again, he whispered back.

"Not yet, poppet. Just give Daddy five more minutes, hey?"

She sighed, but thankfully didn't argue, and she shuffled back to the side of the bed where a family of tiny, velvet dogs needed her attention. John held on for dear life and hoped that the room would stop spinning soon.

There was a tentative knock on his door, and Sherlock slowly opened it and peeped in.

"You OK, Turnip?" he whispered.

"Daddy doesn't feel very well," she complained, loudly. "And I'm hungry."

"I'm fine," John muttered. "I'll be up in a minute."

"Why didn't you just send her in to me when she woke up?" Sherlock asked as Scarlet leapt up at him.

"Because you had her last night so that I could go out in the first place. Now I have to take my punishment. I'll get up in a minute."

"What sort of hangover is it?" Sherlock asked. "The sort where you feel better if you throw up for a bit, or the sort where you feel better if you eat a massive fry up?"

John winced and cursed.

"As bad as that?" Sherlock nodded, sympathetically.

"I'm fine. I just hadn't realised just how badly a hangover and a small child go together."

"I hadn't realised just how drunk you can get when you've got a mind to."

"It's certainly been a while," John muttered. "But then it was a stag do with a heap of soldiers. I'm not sure why I thought it would be tidier." He swallowed and groaned again. "Leave her. I'll get up in a second."

"Don't be ridiculous. You're in no fit state to parent a small child today. I'll do it."

John snorted, and regretted it fairly instantly. "I'm fine," he protested weakly.

"You're ridiculous. Look, I want to have her today; I've got plans for her. Come on Turnip. Let's leave your ridiculous daddy to his ridiculous suffering."

John let them go. He spent a couple of minutes feeling extremely lucky about his choice of flatmate until his voice of reason piped up and reminded him that that really didn't sound right. The words; 'I've got plans for her…' rang around his head a couple of times, and, just as he'd decided to get up and go and check that there weren't any experiments in progress, he fell asleep again.

oOo

Scarlet bounced delightedly in Sherlock's arms as he carried her down the stairs. They both knew that she was a fraction too old to be carried around the house in such a fashion, but both of them decided to ignore that fact for a while.

"What's for breakfast?" Scarlet asked.

"I don't know. Whatever we can persuade Mrs Hudson to cook for us, I suppose. You do the talking; she likes you better than she likes me. Only don't ask for cake or ice-cream. Ask for sausages, egg and toast."

"Mrs Hudson likes you best. Daddy likes me best." Scarlet told him.

"No, she did like me best until you came along, and now she likes you best. It's OK. I think it's normal for that to happen."

"I like you best," Scarlet said, hugging him and planting a wet kiss on the side of his neck.

"You're a strange little beast sometimes," Sherlock told her. He put her down as they got to Mrs Hudson's door, and he knocked. Scarlet opened the door at the first sign of life and bounced inside.

"Mornin', Mrs Hudson!" she chirped. "We've 'cided to come for breakfast, and we want sausage and ice-cream."

"Oh good morning, darling," Mrs Hudson gushed at her. "I'll get you something in a minute, sweetheart. Do you want to put some cartoons on?" Scarlet skipped away to do that, and Mrs Hudson turned angry eyes to Sherlock. "What did you do?"

"Nothing! I didn't do anything!" he regained control of his mouth and shut it, taking a split second to work out what Mrs Hudson could possibly be referring to this time. He came up empty and frowned. "No, really; what are you talking about?"

"All that noise last night!"

"Noise? Oh, that was John."

"I know it was John. What did you do to him?"

"I babysat his daughter so that he could go out and reminisce with some old friends." Sherlock gave her an injured sniff. "I thought it might be a nice break for him."

"He was just drunk?"

"Yes."

"You didn't do something to him?"

"No. It was entirely self-inflicted. And now I've offered to look after Scarlet some more because he's feeling a little worse for wear, but I don't know how to make her breakfast, so I thought I'd come and ask here. I'm sure I can work out something though, if you don't want to help…" He gave her an injured look and turned towards the door.

"Oh, Sherlock, I'm sorry, I just assumed! Of course I can find something for her to eat. Did you want a little something too?"

"A couple of sausages would be nice if you could spare them," he said, going to sit beside Scarlet. "And some eggs, toast, mushrooms and anything else that you might have lying around. Oh, and coffee." He turned the volume up and snuggled closer to Scarlet.

Mrs Hudson smiled at him indulgently and bustled off to make breakfast.

Later, Scarlet was well fed and suitably dressed and was back in Mrs Hudson's flat while she tried to tame her hair into pig-tails.

"Can I have ribbons?" Scarlet asked.

"I'm sure I can find you some ribbons," Mrs Hudson replied, looking as though she would like to spend the rest of eternity dressing Scarlet's hair and dressing her up.

"Will they match my dress?" She was wearing her best, pink, party dress, covered with lace and ribbons and her favourite item of clothing since Sherlock had bought it for her several months before.

"I should think I can find some pink ribbons somewhere," Mrs Hudson said, knowing full well that she'd cut the one from her wedding bouquet in half. She'd kept it, being a woman of some sentiment, but she knew she'd get more pleasure from it if it were in Scarlet's hair. The thought of it made her misty eyed.

"What's wrong with you?" Sherlock said, barging in and checking himself in her mirror.

"I'm fine. Well, I must say you two both look very nice! Where on earth are you going? Sherlock, let me straighten your tie."

"It's fine," he snapped, before standing in front of her. "Is it OK?" he asked in a much less certain voice.

"It could be a little looser," Mrs Hudson said, adjusting it. "I don't think I've ever seen you in a tie. Why won't you tell me where you're going?"

"We just thought we'd dress up and have a nice day out. Perhaps we'll go and see the Queen!"

"Can we see the Queen?" Scarlet asked instantly, jumping up and down at him.

"Well, maybe not the Queen." He drifted off somewhere and a look of faint concern crossed his face. The doorbell rang and brought him back to the present and he smiled again. "That's our car."

"Let me sort out the ribbons for Scarlet!" Mrs Hudson said and she started digging in her dresser for her keepsake box.

Sherlock went into the hallway and opened the front door with a flourish and a large, fake smile.

"I see you're driving us yourself," he said. "And in the Jaguar too. I applaud your choice."

Mycroft looked at him uncertainly. "So you are actually coming?" he said.

"Of course I'm coming. Wouldn't miss it for the world." Sherlock smiled another, manic smile. "Just give me a moment, would you?"

Sherlock turned and left Mycroft standing on the pavement. He dived into the cupboard beneath the stairs and retrieved Scarlet's barely used booster seat.

"Are you ready?" he called into Mrs Hudson's flat.

"I'm coming!" Scarlet answered. She appeared in the hallway. "Look! I'm beautiful!" She spun around to show him.

"You're very beautiful. Come on now." With his free hand he picked up the rucksack, which he'd been determined not to forget, and she followed him outside.

"What are you doing?" Mycroft asked. "You aren't seriously bringing that!"

"She's a _her,_ not a _that_, and I suggest you learn to speak about her a little more courteously." He stepped towards the car.

"Don't be ludicrous!" Mycroft said. "You can't possibly be suggesting that we take her with us."

Sherlock stopped and looked at him. "Well if you want, we could just stay here." He turned back to the flat.

"It's once a year, Sherlock! You can behave yourself for one day in a year! Now send her back in to her father."

"Not possible. John can't have her today."

"Mrs Hudson then."

"Nope. You get us both or not at all."

Mycroft glared. Sherlock stood his ground.

"Are we going in the big, black car?" Scarlet asked, looking at it. "It's very shiny."

"Well, are we?" Sherlock asked.

Mycroft sighed and unlocked the car. "Very well then," he muttered.

"You're very cross," Scarlet said. "Do you think you might need a cuddle?"

"I assure you I do not!"

Scarlet surveyed him, thoughtfully. "Maybe you need a nap," she suggested.

Sherlock smirked and opened the door for her, positioning her seat carefully and helping her into it.

"I think he does need a nap," he whispered to her, strapping her in. "I wouldn't suggest cuddling him though."

He closed the door and got in beside Mycroft.

"Given the driver the day off?" he asked.

"I don't trust you around him. Now, I have compromised on the child situation, so I suggest you spend the rest of the day on your best behaviour. After all, you wouldn't want young Scarlet to see you misbehave, would you? Teach by example, isn't that what they say?"

Sherlock turned towards him. "That was really quite desperate."

Mycroft winced and took a breath. He turned his attention to navigating them away from London.

Sherlock started playing with the lock on the passenger door.

"Shit," he muttered.

"What?"

"I forgot to check that the child-lock was on in the back."

"She'll be fine."

"She fiddles with things."

"Well she won't fiddle with the door. What right-minded human being tries to open a car door while it's moving?"

They both thought about this for a while.

"Scarlet?" Sherlock called.

"Yes?"

"Don't open the car door."

"What?"

"Don't play with the door handle."

"What?"

"Just don't touch the door, OK? It's a bit dangerous."

"OK."

"In fact," Mycroft added, "don't touch anything at all."

"I'm touching the seat."

"That's fine," Mycroft confirmed.

"It's only my seat, but I'm touching the car seat just a little bit."

"That's fine."

"But it's only a little bit on my legs. On this bit here. Just here."

"That's fine," Mycroft said, risking a brief glance behind at her. "Do take your shoes off the seat now."

"OK."

There was silence for a moment.

"Now what?" Scarlet asked.

"Now what, what?" Sherlock asked.

"Now what now I've taken my shoes off?"

"No, don't take your shoes off!" Sherlock looked behind him and sighed.

"But that man said I should."

"I clearly didn't!" Mycroft said. "Sherlock, is this child… slightly _backwards_?"

"No!" Sherlock hissed. "She's just a _child,_ and she's a better child than the vast majority of them."

"Ah, so you've decided to make small children a study, have you? Is there a particular reason for this?"

"Don't be ridiculous. I don't study; I observe."

"Ah, I see."

"Yellow car," Scarlet said from the back.

There was a brief silence between the brothers.

"What's she doing?" Mycroft asked.

"She's observing," Sherlock answered shortly.

"Yellow car," said Scarlet.

Sherlock, despite himself, blushed.

"She's chosen to observe yellow cars, has she?"

"Yes, it's a game, it's called 'yellow car', and she spots the yellow cars," Sherlock snapped.

"And when do you think you'll be teaching her chess?" Mycroft said with a faint sneer.

Sherlock didn't say anything. He had tried to teach Scarlet chess the previous summer, only stopping, defeated when she swallowed a pawn. He still hadn't admitted to John where the missing pawn had ended up.

"Yellow car," said Scarlet.

"Is there any way of making her stop?" Mycroft asked.

"Not that I've found as yet."

There was silence as Mycroft finally joined the M40. Sherlock luxuriated in the gentle purr the engine and the cool hum of the climate control. The polished wood of the dashboard gleamed and the chrome around the dials shone. Sherlock's hands flinched slightly as he longed to take the wheel, and he wondered how cold it would have to get in Hell before he admitted he quite liked Mycroft's car.

Scarlet wasn't enjoying the experience quite so much.

"Sherlock, I feel sick," she said quietly.

Mycroft and Sherlock frowned at each other.

"Does she get car-sick?" Mycroft asked.

"I don't know; we've only ever done short journeys in cabs before."

There was the sound of a gag and a huge cough from the back seat.

"Apparently; yes," Sherlock said.

He twisted around in his seat to check Scarlet.

"It's OK," he said. "I don't think she's actually…" There was a loud retch. "No, forget I started saying anything."

Scarlet started to cry with that quiet, whimpering cry that a child makes when they're actually sad rather than just looking for attention.

"It's OK," Sherlock said. He unclipped his seatbelt and started to climb through the gap between the front seats.

"What are you doing?" Mycroft shouted.

"Oh, shut up, Mycroft!" With a fair amount of difficulty Sherlock managed to navigate his frame through the painfully small gap and popped through to the back seat. He twisted his left leg somewhat painfully as he pulled it through after him, but he achieved his aim. Scarlet was surprised into silence.

"Are you feeling better now?" Sherlock asked.

"I was sick on my beautiful dress," she said mournfully.

"It doesn't matter, it's just a dress." He started rummaging through the bag for wipes and tissues and he tried to mop her up a bit.

"But now I'm not beautiful any more."

"Yes you are."

"You will, of course, pay for a valet," Mycroft said.

"It's mostly on her dress."

"Even so." Mycroft opened his window.

Sherlock glared at him before dropping the soiled wipes on the floor of the car.

He sat back on the seat and closed his eyes.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," Scarlet said quietly.

"It's fine," he said, opening his eyes again. "It's not your fault. Do you want to play a game?"

"Can we play Tapir?"

"If you want. You go first."

"Er… aardvark."

"Good one. Giraffe."

"Hippopopoto-mouse."

"Camel."

"Elephant."

"What are the rules of this game?" Mycroft asked.

"Haven't you worked them out yet?" Sherlock answered. "It doesn't matter to you, you're not allowed to play. You're disqualified for being boring."

"And cross," Scarlet added.

"That too. Now… sloth."

"Tapir!" Scarlet yelled. She giggled. "Tapir, tapir, tapir!"

"You win," Sherlock said. "Another game? How about… penguin."

"Reindeer."

"Ibex. Wait, why are we stopping?"

Mycroft had pulled onto a slip road.

"There are services here."

"What do you need services for?"

"Surely you want to clean the child up a bit."

Sherlock shrugged at Scarlet. "We can wait until we get to the house."

"Don't be ridiculous. It's bad enough that you've brought her at all; you can't possibly turn up with her in that state."

"Can we get sweets?" Scarlet asked.

Mycroft muttered something inaudible, and found a parking space.

Sherlock steered a now bright and happy Scarlet into the baby changing room. She protested that she wasn't a baby, and he protested that there weren't enough unisex toilets at service stations. She was happy as he stripped her and vaguely washed her down a bit though. He rummaged through the bag. Unfortunately, Scarlet's day-bag as it was affectionately known, held clothes that had been relegated to spare because they were too worn or two small. Scarlet was forced to swap the most beautiful dress in the world for a pair of jeans that only just fit and which were worn through at the knee, and a t-shirt with a bright flower on the front and a green ink-stain on the shoulder.

"See," Sherlock said, standing her on the sink surround so she could look in the mirror. "Still beautiful."

"I've got ink on me," she said.

"That shows that you really like colouring in."

He stuffed the dress into a carrier bag, which he then stuffed back in the day bag. He took Scarlet's hand and they set off to re-find Mycroft. He was lingering by the car holding a bag.

"I bought some travel-sickness remedies," he said, "some of which are suitable for children."

"Don't be ridiculous. I'm not going to drug someone else's child." He refused to think about his experiment with caffeine the previous year. He peered into the bag. "Didn't you get any water?"

"No."

Sherlock sighed. "Wait here with her." He gave Mycroft the bag and stalked to the shop.

Mycroft looked at Scarlet. Scarlet looked at Mycroft.

"Do you want to play Tapir with me?" Scarlet asked.

"No."

"I can let you win."

"No. Though thank you for the kind offer."

Mycroft looked away across the car park, conscious that Scarlet was still staring at him. He rocked on his feet. Scarlet suddenly crouched down and placed her hands on the white line that marked out the parking space. She flung her feet into the air a few inches and they landed just next to where they started. Mycroft boggled.

"Did you like my cartwheel?" she asked him.

"No. Your hands will be filthy now."

She examined her hands. "No, they're just a tiny bit dusty, that's all." She wiped them on her t-shirt.

Mycroft sighed and turned away. Scarlet took to quietly kicking his car tyres until Sherlock came back brandishing a bottle of water. He carefully helped her to take a few mouthfuls.

"Of course now she'll need the lavatory," Mycroft grumbled.

"We're about half an hour from the house, what could possibly go wrong in that time?" Almost immediately, Sherlock wished he hadn't asked that question.

Thankfully the rest of the journey passed without incident, and half an hour later, Mycroft pulled onto the long, sweeping, horse-shoe driveway. He looked up at the tall, red-brick mansion and shuddered.

* * *

**There will of course be a part two. Pip xxx**


	70. A Day Out, Part Two

A day Out, Part Two.

Sherlock felt his heart beat unusually high in his chest as he got out of the car. He dismissed the feeling and told himself to stop being so foolish. He'd been face to face with murderers, blackmailers, in court on both sides of the dock, and he had faced every situation with ease. There was no need for him to feel panic over an elderly woman who just happened to have given birth to him once.

He opened the door for Scarlet who hopped lightly onto the gravel drive, making the stones crunch beneath her feet.

There were no weeds pushing through. The borders were impeccably clear and the two, large planters at either side of the door were clean from soil or snail-trails or any sign that they'd been outside for the past forty years. Sherlock wondered why the gardens were kept so tidy when his mother probably hadn't been outside for ten years or more.

He took Scarlet's hand and walked up the steps to the front door. It was opened by a young man Sherlock didn't recognise. He was wearing a morning suit.

"Ah, good morning, Sidney," Mycroft said.

"Good morning, sir. Mrs Holmes is waiting in the drawing room." He glanced at Sherlock and then at Scarlet, but Mycroft didn't see fit to make introductions.

They walked along the wide entrance hall, their shoes clattering on the parquet floor. Scarlet hopped a couple of times, listening to the sound.

The drawing room was suitably stately; not much changed had from when Sherlock had lived there. The furniture had been reupholstered, and there were a couple more antique vases on the mantelpiece, but other than that, it was as if it had been frozen in time. Mrs Holmes sat in a straight-backed chair in front of the window. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her. She'd lost a full inch and a half in height since he'd last seen her.

She stood, using a stick to lean on.

"Well, Mycroft, you've arrived, I see. You're late."

He leant to kiss her on both cheeks. "Good morning, Mother. Many happy returns of the day." He produced a small, wrapped package and a card from his pocket.

Sherlock loomed, looking obviously empty handed.

"And my second son. How lovely," Mrs Holmes said. She put her hand out and Sherlock shook it briefly.

"Happy birthday, mother," he muttered.

Scarlet stepped forward from behind Sherlock's legs, and Mrs Holmes' pencilled on eyebrows shot up.

"And who is this?" she asked.

Scarlet moved closer to Sherlock and gripped onto his hand.

"Well?" Mrs Holmes demanded. "What is your name?"

"Turnip," said Scarlet.

"Scarlet," Sherlock muttered. "It's Scarlet."

Scarlet's free thumb stole into her mouth.

"I can't abide a child who sucks her thumb," Mrs Holmes said.

Scarlet removed her thumb. "I'm allowed," she said, and she put her thumb back.

"You allow such things?" she asked Sherlock.

He didn't answer, but he used his thumb to gently stroke the small hand he was holding.

"Sherlock, is this the Queen?" Scarlet whispered up to him.

"Didn't your father ever tell you it's rude to whisper in front of people?" Mrs Holmes asked.

"Who?" Scarlet asked.

"Your father." Mrs Holmes looked at Sherlock. "What on earth does she call you?"

"She calls me Sherlock."

"How very modern. Well, I wish you had told me in advance. I suppose that Mrs Neil might look after her, but I didn't instruct anyone to hire a nanny for the occasion."

"She doesn't need a nanny. She's perfectly fine with me."

"I see that you've matured well," Mrs Holmes said.

Mycroft cleared his throat. "Perhaps we should all sit down."

"Yes indeed," Mrs Holmes said. "Mycroft, darling, do ring the bell for drinks." She shuffled back to her chair and sat down again. Sherlock slumped into an armchair opposite her and Scarlet climbed on and wedged herself between him and the chair arm.

Mycroft didn't need to ring for drinks. Before he'd taken his seat Sidney appeared in the room brandishing a tray with three glasses with small measures of brandy, and a forth glass full of milk. He put them down on the coffee table, bowed, and left the room.

"Is the milk for me?" Scarlet whispered to Sherlock.

"I would think so. Drink it carefully though. Hold the glass with two hands."

She slid to the floor and approached the table with some trepidation. She dutifully picked up the glass with both hands and very carefully lifted it to her mouth, took two sips, and then put it delicately down on the exact spot that she'd removed it from.

She turned around to Sherlock for approval and he gave her a very quick smile. She wiped her mouth on the back of her hand, and Sherlock saw his mother wince.

"Would it be too much to ask who her mother is?" Mrs Holmes asked.

"Her name was Mary Watson. She wasn't from any particular family."

Mrs Holmes sniffed.

"And her father is Captain John Watson of the fifth Northumberland Fusiliers," Mycroft said. "He's a close friend of Sherlock's."

Mrs Holmes put a hand to her chest and breathed out. "Oh, thank goodness for that."

Sherlock bristled but didn't say anything.

"And why isn't she with her parents today?" Mrs Holmes asked.

"I thought you might want to meet her," Sherlock said.

"Why on earth would I want to meet her?

"I'm looking after her for the day. It couldn't be predicted."

Scarlet's was swinging on the arm of Sherlock's armchair, and now her head popped up again.

"Daddy went out too late last night, and now he feels sick. I was sick too, in the car, but I went to bed on time."

This was a lie. As usual when Sherlock was babysitting, Scarlet had ended staying up well past her bedtime. He didn't query it though, he just watched his mother who was looking at Scarlet as if she was something unpleasant that had been dragged in by the cat. He shifted in his seat slightly.

"Now, mother," Mycroft said, "how is all of this business with Henderson's field going along."

Mrs Holmes was suddenly animated and launched into a diatribe about disputed land, and what had been done, and what hadn't, and how people were retaliating. Mycroft nodded and smiled. Sherlock watched them both, feeling effectively dismissed from their minds, and he fiddled with his tie.

"I'm bored," Scarlet whined quietly.

"Yes, me too," Sherlock sympathised. He glanced around the room. "Here's a game. There is one, big vase in this room with a picture of an elephant on it. Do you think you could be a detective and find it?"

"Yes!" she hissed, eyes bright with the challenge.

"Don't touch it," Sherlock warned. "It might cause a stampede. You just come back and tell me where it is."

Scarlet set off. She dutifully crept quietly around the back of the chairs, tiptoeing to look at the details on each vase until she'd worked her way right round behind Mrs Holmes' chair and was standing by the window. Scarlet turned and grinned, pointing at the vase. It was nearly as tall as she was.

Sherlock smiled back and nodded.

Scarlet was all set to return when Mrs Holmes leaned sharply around the back of her chair and shouted.

"Child! What on earth are you doing with that! Don't go near that! Don't touch it."

Sherlock was on his feet instantly, foreseeing the disaster, but Scarlet was shocked and terrified, and she backed away from everybody, and especially Mrs Holmes. She backed right into the hitherto untouched vase, which crashed against the wall and then down to the ground, leaving a large pile of broken china with a small child sat in the middle of it. Scarlet cried.

"No don't snivel!" Mrs Holmes barked, standing up and pointing at her with her walking stick. "I'm the one who should be crying. It's my vase that has been broken. Sherlock, that will be taken out of your inheritance!"

Sherlock had reached Scarlet now, and he picked her up. She hid her face against his shoulder and cried.

"She hadn't touched it until you shouted, you silly woman!" Sherlock snapped. "And I don't want anything from you."

"Sherlock!" Mycroft shouted.

"Why did you bring her here?" Mrs Holmes asked again.

Sherlock just held her and flushed. "I'll take her to play in the garden," he said, and he marched from the room.

"Leave her with the gardener," Mrs Holmes called after him. "He'll keep an eye on her."

Scarlet was quickly soothed as she got into the fresh air, and Sherlock put her down so she could hop and skip along the garden path. There had been lots of rain that week, but now the sun had started to shine, and the garden was left lush and green. Daisy poked their way through the lawn, and Sherlock wondered where they found the audacity.

Scarlet ran onto the lawn, perfectly charmed and happy again. Sherlock walked along behind her with his hands stuffed into his pockets. Scarlet turned several more cartwheels.

"Sherlock, this garden is _beautiful_!" She gazed at the flowerbeds longingly, but had somehow found the wisdom to stand back rather than stomping in the pick all the flowers. "Did you play here when you were little? When you were a little boy?"

"Sometimes. Not good games like you play. We looked for insects and dissected the flower-heads to see all of the individual parts."

"Can we do that?"

"We shouldn't."

"Oh. Did you used to play Tapir?"

"No. You taught me how to play that."

"Can we look for insects?"

"I suppose so."

They got knelt down in the grass, and, heads close together, they looked among the blades of grass. They only found ants, and Scarlet's attention soon wandered. They went together to the furthest end of the garden where there were three, large trees; two tall horse chestnuts and one old oak.

"This would be brilliant for hide and seek!" Scarlet said. "Let's play!"

She ran towards the left hand horse chestnut and stood behind it.

"OK, I'm counting." Sherlock counted loudly to ten, and started to look for her, shouting his confusion as he looked in all the places she wasn't and failing to hear her giggles as he did so. He was aware that he was being watched from the house and he refused to care. He crept up to the tree and pounced on Scarlet who squealed with laughter.

"You hide!" she instructed, and she started to count.

He went to stand behind the other horse-chestnut. The two figures in the drawing room window were staring at him, and he folded his arms and stared back.

Scarlet found him and laughed. There were grass stains on the knees of her trousers, and a fair amount of mulch and mud on her trainers. He decided that she was probably clean enough.

"I think I could climb that tree," she said, pointing at the oak.

"We're not allowed to climb it."

"Why not?"

"I don't know." He calculated the approximate strength of the tree, scanning the branches for signs of rot or damage, and then calculated the weight of the child. "Actually I really don't know."

He lifted her up onto the lowest branch and held onto her while she found her footing.

"I'm in a tree!" she said, delighted.

She was barely three foot from the ground.

"Be careful," he said, and as she quite ably took a step and found another branch to hold onto, he let go of her. He stayed very close and watched. After a moment, he took of his tie and hung it on one of the branches, and he loosened his top button.

"Mother wants to know if you'll be joining us for dinner," Mycroft said from behind him.

"Of course we will. We're here aren't we? Unless of course she wants to banish us to the kitchen or the servant's quarters."

"Sherlock, why did you bring her?" Sherlock spun around to look at him. "What exactly did you think would happen?" Mycroft continued. "Did you really think that she'd take one look at Scarlet, who, as much as you might like her, is a perfectly average child, and be charmed into something approaching kindness? Did you think she'd awaken a maternal instinct previously unsuspected in her?"

Sherlock stuck his chin out and sulked.

"It's for the best," Mycroft said. "Caring isn't an advantage, Sherlock, I've told you this before. After all, if Mother cared for you, and you for her, you wouldn't have been able to cut her from your life for the past ten years."

"Then why are you here?" Sherlock spat. "Why do you do your annual pilgrimage if you care so little? Just to protect the inheritance, is it?"

Mycroft shrugged. "It's what one does." He smiled. "Now, are you joining us for dinner? We thought you might want to clean up the little one first. I'm sure there's a guest bathroom you can use."

"She's fine. She's a perfectly _average_ child with an _average_ amount of dirt on her."

There was the sound of a squelchy thud behind him. He turned to find that Scarlet had found a particularly soft patch of mud to fall into. She pushed up out of the puddle, to reveal that her t-shirt, jeans and a large portion of her face were all covered in it.

"I fell in the mud!" she said, sounding impressed with herself.

"Well observed," Mycroft said. He turned and went back to the house.

Sherlock let out a long, deep breath and then knelt to help Scarlet out of her puddle. They walked slowly back to the house, and around to the side to the kitchen door.

"Hello?" Sherlock called as they went in. A smiling cook appeared. "Sorry, we don't mean to disturb you. We had a bit of an accident and I thought I'd brush her down in the pantry. I used to live here."

"Oh, bless her!" the woman exclaimed. "The poor lamb. You go in there. I'll get Doreen to go and get you some towels."

"Thank you." He steered a subdued Scarlet into a tiled room. He had spent a fair amount of his younger life in the pantry, and though there was a new washing machine and dishwasher installed, he remembered it quite fondly. There was a huge, enamelled sink, and removed his jacket, rolled up his sleeves and started filling the sink with hot water. Scarlet stood quietly beside him, cowed by this mysterious room and wilting slightly.

"This will work as well as a bath for you I would think," Sherlock said. He glanced down at her. "Are you OK? Did you get hurt?"

"No." She let him start pulling her muddy clothes from her. "I don't think that man likes me very much," she said as her head emerged from her t-shirt.

"It's not personal. That man doesn't like anyone very much. If it helps at all, he like probably likes you more than he likes me."

"I think that old lady doesn't like me even more."

"No. She didn't always used to be like that. I'm sorry that she couldn't be nicer to you now."

"Why is she cross now?"

"I don't know."

He picked her up and sat her in the sink. She settled into it and had more than enough room to sit with her knees just slightly bent. She seemed to revive slightly.

"This could be a bath for dolls. If we lived here, I could have this room as my very own palace and my dolls could have this sink as their bath."

Sherlock mopped her down. Another woman appeared bringing two large, luxurious looking towels with her.

"I brought you these," she said. "I thought of looking for clothes, but most of it's in storage and I think there were only boys here."

"Yes, I was one of them." He smiled at her surprise. "She has more spare clothes; can you watch her for just a second while I run and get her bag?"

He darted through the kitchen and up the back stairs. He hoped that Mycroft and Mother were already in the dining room, but they caught him as he was coming out of the drawing room.

"Ah, Sherlock dear, will there be an apology?" Mrs Holmes asked.

He stood still and looked at her.

"Yes, there really ought to be."

He left them and went back down to the pantry. He could hear Scarlet chatting to the mysterious Doreen, telling her about when she'd start school, and how there would be a million new friends for her, and they would all be princesses, because it was a princess school, and she was really and truly a princess too. She stopped as she saw Sherlock in the doorway, wondering if she'd been caught in the lie.

"Thank you," he said to Doreen.

"She's a delight, isn't she?"

"I certainly think so. Thank you for keeping an eye on her."

Doreen bustled away.

"I think you're clean enough now. Shall we see what clothes we have left in this bag." She craned her neck to see as he brought each item out with a flourish. "We have… bright pink tights."

"They have a hole in them."

"And a skirt with flowers on it."

"That's my baby skirt!"

"And… a jumper." He looked out of the small window at the bright sunshine. "Well, needs must, I suppose. Let's get you dressed again." He sat her on the draining board and wrapped her in a towel. He bent so that he could talk to her properly. "Scarlet, I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I promised you a nice day out, and then brought you here, where people have been horrible to you."

"That lady was nice," Scarlet said.

"What lady?"

"The one while I was in the sink. And I liked climbing in the tree before I fell out of it."

"Well I'm pleased, but I still think you could probably be having more fun somewhere else. What do you think. Should we just run away?"

"From here?"

"Yes. It's that, or go and have dinner with the cross man and horrible woman in a stupidly big room where you're not allowed to break or mark anything."

"Let's run away," Scarlet said.

He rubbed her dry and helped her pull her clothes on. The tights did indeed have a hole that her toe poked through, and the skirt was so short it was only just decent, but she was at least dressed. He fastened her shoes back on.

"Right, let's go."

He helped her jump down, and with yet more dirty clothes stuffed into the bag, they went back into the kitchen.

"Thank you again," he called to the cook and Doreen.

"Are you not staying?"

"No, we have other plans. Goodbye."

"Goodbye! Thank you," Scarlet called, trotting after Sherlock.

They left via the kitchen door and walked around the side of the house.

"Right, the dining room overlooks the driveway, so you'll have to follow me carefully," Sherlock said, looking back at Scarlet. "Just keep walking straight to the car as if you did it every day, and don't stop whatever happens. And don't run unless I say run. OK?"

"OK."

She followed him sedately to the car. Sherlock produced the key from his pocket with five meters to go, and he unlocked the doors remotely. He heard the frantic knocking on the dining room window. He opened the back door for Scarlet and strapped her in, taking an extra two seconds to double check she was safe and secure. He flung her bag onto the seat next to her and walked around to the driver's seat. He turned the ignition just as the front door opened, and he pulled away as Mycroft started down the stairs. The road was thankfully empty and he pulled onto it quite smoothly. His phone started ringing.

"I can't answer that if I'm driving, can I?" he said.

"No. It's not safe," Scarlet agreed.

Sherlock smiled. The car handled as beautifully as he had imagined.

* * *

**There will, of course, be a part three... Pip xxx  
**


	71. A Day Out  Part Three

A day out, part three.

Sherlock drove onto the motorway to take them back to London, but almost immediately he left it again and drove into a service station. He turned off the engine and stared out of the window for a while.

"Are you OK?" Scarlet asked.

"What? Oh, yes, I'm fine. Are you OK?"

"Yes."

"Where shall we go now?"

"I want to go to the seaside."

Sherlock calculated some routes.

"Fair enough." He picked up his phone and cleared the missed calls list before looking up the number of a five star hotel in Brighton. "Yes, reservations please. I need two rooms for tonight, one night stay, one room needs an extra child's bed in it." He started rummaging through an unfamiliar wallet and pulled out a likely looking credit card to read the number off it. "Thank you. The name's Mycroft Holmes. We'll be there in two hours."

He turned to look at Scarlet.

"It's important that you know that theft is wrong."

"OK."

"I'm going to call your dad now."

"OK."

John answered sounding slightly bleary.

"Feeling better?" Sherlock asked.

"Yeah. Fine." John yawned. "Where are you?"

"Nowhere. It doesn't matter. Look, Scarlet and I are going to Brighton. Do you want to come with us?"

There was a pause.

"Sorry, what?" John said eventually.

Sherlock sighed and spoke slowly. "Scarlet and I are going to Brighton. You're welcome to join us, and I'll drive in and pick you up. If you don't want to, it's just as easy for us to set off from here. What would you prefer?"

There was another pause.

"You can't just take someone else's child to Brighton, Sherlock."

"Marvellous, I'll pick you up in an hour. You'll want to pack a couple of spare outfits for Scarlet and stuff for overnight. I've booked rooms." He hung up. "Right, let's go." He turned the ignition on and then looked in the back at Scarlet. "Now, we have to be in the car for quite a long time, so if you can avoid vomiting until we're nearly home tomorrow, I'll be exceedingly grateful. At that point, though, you can get it everywhere. Deal?"

"Will I get a toy?"

"If we can buy it before Mycroft cancels his card, yes."

They set off again. Scarlet was quite chirpy on the drive back to London, and by the time they got back to Baker Street, Sherlock's head was beginning to ring from her babble, and he wondered if a weekend in Brighton was far more than he could manage. He pulled in and called John.

"We're here," he said when the phone was answered.

"Are you going to come up?"

"That would mean leaving the car and it might get clamped. Actually, Mycroft would have to pay to get it released, so we'll be up in a second."

He bundled a slightly grumpy Scarlet out of the car and up the flat steps.

"I'm hungry," she announced to John by way of welcome.

He handed her an apple.

"Did you eat already?" he asked Sherlock.

"No, we dashed off before lunch was served. I see you opted for vomiting and then having the fry up."

John sighed. "Don't do that."

"What? I'm just saying that that was the sensible order."

"OK, well I think I'm packed, but we'll need to stop at a chemist to pick up some travel pills for Scarlet. I'm not completely sure yet, but I think she might get car-sick."

"I can verify that."

John looked at Scarlet who was gnawing on the apple. "Ah. Sorry."

"It's fine. Mycroft bought some stuff for her, but I told him we couldn't possibly drug another person's child. She was fine in the car just now."

"I'll give her something just in case. Right; my bag, Scarlet's bag with loads of clothes and spare pyjamas, wallets, phone, keys, bowl, spare towels, map, jacket, books for Scarlet, Scarlet's blankie, Scarlet's bear, coats for everyone. Have I forgotten anything?"

"I don't think so. What's the bowl for?"

"Scarlet gets car-sick; we've just been over this. I haven't packed for you, by the way."

"Why not?"

"Because a man who's old enough to go away to Brighton is a man who's old enough to pack for himself."

"I'm hungry," Scarlet said, handing John her apple core. He started peeling a banana for her.

"Go on; we'll wait here for you."

Sherlock sighed and stomped through to his bedroom. Scarlet ate her banana serenely, and John watched her.

"Where did you go this morning?" John asked.

"I went to have a bath in a giant sink, and a woman was nice, and there were big fluffy towels, and I fell out of a tree. Sherlock and me played hide and seek, and I was a real-live detective."

John listened, amused. "Where did all of this happen?"

"In a house. It was really big. I think it might even have been a castle-palace."

"OK. Did anyone live there?"

"The grumpy old troll and a wicked witch."

"Did they have names?"

"I don't remember the troll's name, but the witch was called Mother."

"OK. Thank you. Go for a wee."

She dashed off. Sherlock came back carrying one small bag. He stopped when he saw John's face.

"What?" he asked.

"Nothing. Are you OK?"

"Yes. Is there any reason you think I might not be?"

"No, not at all. Ready Scarlet? We should probably get off before the car does get clamped and we can't go anywhere at all. Scarlet, you carry Sherlock-bear and blankie, and this." He turned the bowl upside down and put it on her head like a hat. "I've got the rest."

They trooped down the stairs and out into the street. John gave a low whistle when he saw the car.

"This is nice! Where did you get this?"

Sherlock sniffed. "Oh, you know. Someone left it lying around." He unlocked it and opened the boot, and they dumped various possessions in it. Scarlet was returned to her seat, and John strapped her in while Sherlock darted back inside to deposit her rather pungent day bag. John looked through the selection of medication and selected a couple of sweet-like pills for her to chew. She sat in the back under her blankie with Sherlock-bear at one side, the bowl on a towel on the other, and a look of complete serenity on her face.

"You look set," he said, and he got into the front to wait for Sherlock. His phone rang and he rolled his eyes at it before answering. "Hello, Mycroft."

"Ah, John. I wonder if you've seen my brother of late?"

"Yes."

"Are you with him now?"

"No."

"John, he has stolen my car."

"Has he? That's dreadful. Doesn't sound at all like something a law abiding subject would do."

"And my wallet."

"Goodness. What is the world coming to? We should make more laws."

"Are you going to help me or not?"

John felt a mild pang of sympathy and sighed.

"Mycroft, if we can keep the car today, I promise you that it will be returned clean inside and out, and with a full tank of petrol. I'll make sure he looks after it."

There was a huff on the other end of the line. "Well I suppose that will have to be fine. And the wallet?"

"That I'll confiscate as soon as I see it."

"Will you go out of your way to see it?"

"I will."

"Thank you."

"Mycroft?"

"Yes?"

John looked up at the flat. "What did she do to him?"

There was a guilty silence. "I'm not entirely sure I can explain it. It's somewhat outside of my area of expertise."

"Right. Well I'll see you soon. And try not to worry, OK."

"About the car?"

"About Sherlock, you clot." He hung up just as Sherlock opened the driver's door.

"Who was that?" he asked.

"Wrong number. So, I think we're really all set now."

Sherlock gave him a long look, and then he started to drive.

"I need a wee," Scarlet said when they'd just pulled out.

"You just had one!" Sherlock said.

"I need another."

He pulled in a few feet further down the road, and John jumped out to release Scarlet. "Don't leave without us," he warned Sherlock. He could tell from the sour look on his face that the thought had crossed his mind.

They left successfully on the second attempt and settled down for the drive. John glanced at Sherlock a couple of times, but decided he'd better leave him to sulk for a while.

"Yellow car," said Scarlet.

"Oh yeah, good spot," John said. Then, after a pause; "My mini."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"First to see a yellow mini win's a prize," John said.

Sherlock muttered something.

"Will it be a good prize?" Scarlet asked.

"Oh yeah. Really good."

"Will it be a kiss," she asked suspiciously.

"Telling you would ruin the surprise."

"I knew it was."

Sherlock smirked. John felt a mild bang of relief, but he he didn't comment on it. They were quiet until they were all the way out of the London and had reached the M25. Well, John and Sherlock were anyway. Scarlet kept up a steady, low-level chatter, slowly getting quieter and quieter until Sherlock suddenly realised she'd been silent for quite some time.

"Where's Scarlet?" he asked, panicked.

"She's fine! She's in the back, exactly where we left her."

Sherlock quickly flicked the rear-view mirror so that he could see her before he put it back.

"She's asleep."

"Yeah. The sickness drugs make her drowsy, that's all. She's fine."

"Really?" Sherlock thought about this. "Can we give them to her next time she's playing up at bedtime?"

"No, Sherlock. Of course not! That would be truly unethical. I mean, I couldn't possibly let someone catch me, a doctor, giving my daughter drugs she didn't need just so that she'd go the hell to sleep already."

"Right."

"I'm appalled that you suggested it."

"Of course."

"I mean, maybe, maybe if she was a little bit nauseous, and if it just happened to be bedtime, that would be fine."

"But she'd have to be nauseous."

"Yes. Or I'd have to think she was nauseous. Sometimes it might be that nausea she doesn't even know she has makes her play up at bedtime."

Sherlock grinned. "John! That's awful! Completely unethical!"

"Well, I didn't claim to be a perfect parent all of the time. Hell, I'll settle for OK parent for most of the time."

Sherlock looked as though he was going to answer, but he closed his mouth again. He retreated into himself and John left him alone, content to look out of the window and watch the houses slowly turn into fields and hills and trees. Things started building up again as they drove into Brighton, and John started shuffling in his seat, impatiently.

"I'm glad I'm not driving you to Edinburgh," Sherlock commented.

"No, I'd be patient until the last few miles of that too. Drove halfway across Iraq for twenty hours in a state of complete calm until we were a few miles off the base."

"You were driving towards a war-zone."

"That's true."

Sherlock turned on the satnav with extreme distaste and John programmed in the postcode of the hotel. Sherlock frowned and grumbled as he obeyed each of the barked instructions. He cheered up as they pulled into the layby beside the hotel though. Two concierges swooped down on them.

"Can I park your car, sir?" one asked eagerly.

"You can. Don't feel you have to be careful with it." Sherlock sniffed. "I'll pay you extra if you scrape it against a pillar."

"Sherlock…" John warned.

The concierge couldn't decide whether this was all a joke or not, and John guessed he'd err on the side of caution. He pulled a sleeping Scarlet from the car, and Sherlock took her immediately. John didn't fight him for her, and he felt foolish as he followed, empty handed. The second concierge carried their bags and watched his friend pull away in the beautiful car.

Scarlet flopped against Sherlock's shoulder and slept on.

"Seriously; we should drug her every night," he said. "This is great. I could tie her in knots right now."

John grinned and signed them in.

They were guided up to their rooms. Sherlock refused to go into his, ordering the concierge to leave his bag in move on. John had clearly gained the luckier end of the draw. The room was spacious, even with the addition of a small, fold away, child's bed, and there was a decent sized balcony overlooking the sea. The concierge unlocked the door to it and stood back, looking mildly smug.

"Oh this is very nice," John said.

Sherlock deposited Scarlet on the small bed and joined them. He rifled through the wallet and dug out a fifty pound note.

"I expect you to split it with your friend," he said.

"Thank you, sir," the concierge said. He grinned and left.

Sherlock turned back to John who was standing on the balcony with his hand out.

"What? You want a tip too? You didn't do anything."

"The wallet, Sherlock."

"You can't have my wallet."

"It's not your wallet. Hand it over."

Sherlock gestured around him. "You want to pay for all of this?"

"No, but I will do, and I'll use my own money. Now give me Mycroft's wallet. I promised I'd look after it for him."

"You always take his side!" Sherlock said.

"I do not!"

"'John, find the missile plans for me,' 'Yes, Mycroft,' 'John, stop Sherlock taking drugs,' 'Yes, Mycroft,', 'John, keep Sherlock away from that woman,' 'Yes, Mycroft.' You're as bad as Lestrade. Worse, in fact, because you're supposed to be my friend."

John rolled his eyes. "If you think I love your brother more than I love you, then you're no kind of genius at all. Now give me the wallet."

Sherlock sighed and handed it over. He sat down on one of the balcony chairs, folded his arms across his chest and glared out to sea.

"Of course, the problem with her being drugged is that we have to stay in until she wakes up," he grumbled. "If she's much longer we'll miss the main part of the day and you'll be paying a fortune for nothing.."

"She won't be," John predicted.

Sure enough, they both heard a small, muffled bump from inside the room. They looked in to find Scarlet sitting on the floor next to her bed looking tousled and confused.

"Where are we?" she asked, looking around. "Is this a palace? Are we at the sea-side? Can we go to see the sea now? I'm hungry."

"You're always hungry," John said. "Come on then. Unless Sherlock wants to stay here and sulk for a bit, we might as well go out now. I'm going to put you in some better clothes first though."

"Sherlock made me wear my baby clothes."

"You feel in the mud!" Sherlock protested.

"I was in a tree!"

John smiled and dug in Scarlet's bag for shorts and a t-shirt. He tidied and re-tied her hair, folding the pink ribbons carefully and putting them in the 'valuables' section of his own bag ready to return them to their owner. Scarlet bounced on the sofa in the room waiting for him to freshen up. As he walked past her, she leapt onto his back, and he struggled but caught her.

"Carry me!" she commanded.

"OK. Let's go and find the sea."

"It doesn't need finding," Sherlock said. "We're in Brighton. We'll leave by the front door and head south for fifty metres."

"I think Sherlock's a bit grumpy, Scarlet."

"I think he's lovely," Scarlet said. "He's my favouritest."

"You're young and naïve," John said. He gave Sherlock a fond smile though. If he'd heard any of this exchange, he didn't show it. John sighed and fretted.

They bought biscuits and crisps and took them to the beach to eat them. Scarlet was momentarily disappointed by the lack of sand for sand-castles, but she was easily distracted into looking for shell and beautiful stones. Both Sherlock and John had more than their pockets could quite managed by the time she was satisfied she'd got the best one. The sea seemed to bother her in some vague, unspecified way. She kept glancing out of it from the corner of her eye, or looking properly, but frowning.

"How about we jump over the waves?" John suggested.

"You'll get wet," Sherlock said.

"I'll roll my trousers up and Scarlet's in shorts already."

"I'll get wet," Scarlet said.

"Yes, the sea is wet. It's fun."

"These pebbles taste salty."

"Yes they do, now stop licking them. Come and stand in the sea with me. I'll carry you and make sure that the sea doesn't get you."

She reluctantly agreed. They stripped off their shoes and socks, and, hand-in-hand, they walked towards the water. John was as good as his word and held Scarlet in his arms as they got close. When the first wave reached his ankles he mugged his shock and ran away protesting that it was too cold. Scarlet squealed with laughter and ordered him to carry her back in. He did so and dangled her so that her toes just caught the top of the next wave and she laughed and kicked. It was less than ten minutes before she got into the water herself, though still holding tightly onto John's hand. Not for long though, and she started scooping up handfuls of water and watching them glisten in the sunshine. That didn't last long either, before she found the game of splashing John with the water. He screamed and pretended to ran away and Scarlet laughed until she could barely breathe.

John turned to check on Sherlock, and was alarmed to find that he was sitting still, watching them and quietly weeping. It was so out of character that John almost pulled Scarlet along to check on him before he decided that Sherlock probably wanted his privacy.

He wasn't able to oblige much with that though, as a slightly bigger wave caught Scarlet by surprise and took her legs out from under her. She sat straight down in the water with a look of utter surprise on her face.

John had picked her up again before she even found time to protest.

"That was a naughty wave!" she said when she'd got her breath back.

"Yes it was," John said, trying not to laugh and risk Scarlet's wrath.

"Naughty sea!"

"Yes."

Sherlock had come down to meet them, and he was laughing hard too and not hiding it at all.

"I got wet!" Scarlet told him, trying to leap from John's arms to his.

"No, don't get me wet too!" he said. He took the sodden child though. She wrapped her arms around him and gave him a cold, salty kiss. He carried her back to the bags, and John sorted out a clean set of clothes for her.

"All I've done today is get dressed and get dressed," she whined.

"Yeah, we'll all I'll be doing tomorrow is laundry and laundry," John said.

"Shall we get food?" Sherlock asked.

"I'm hungry," Scarlet said as John pulled soggy clothes from her.

"Let's go somewhere nice and get waited on for a change," Sherlock said.

"Yeah, because you don't have me and Mrs Hudson running around after you all the time at all," John said. "I don't think I'm dressed or dry enough for somewhere fancy. Plus I don't think I can be bothered with the cross looks on posh people's faces when Scarlet has the audacity to act like a four year old in front of them."

"You're right. Let's go somewhere cheap where they like children."

They walked along the promenade, and delayed the meal for half an hour when Scarlet fell in love with a restored Victorian carousel, and she insisted she had a go on the horses. She rode round and round, eyes shining and with a smile made of pure delight.

Sherlock went quiet again, and John smacked him on the back and squeezed his shoulder.

"Let's get food," he said. "You must be starving."

"I'm fine," Sherlock responded automatically. "I ate breakfast this morning."

"Adult males need to eat at least twice a day. You're hungry, you've driven for hours, and you're overwrought and out of sorts."

"I'm _fine._"

John retrieved Scarlet and he carried her on his shoulders as she regaled them with stories of Daisy, the purple horse who lived by the sea and who spoke with the mermaids. They ended up eating quite late in a Greek restaurant where Scarlet was indeed doted on by the waiting staff. It was long past her bedtime when they carried her back to the hotel, stopping at John's insistence to buy beer to save money on the mini-bar bill.

Scarlet was wild and stirred up when they got back, and John briefly worried he'd lose Sherlock while they waited for her to sleep. Sherlock just strode onto the balcony though, and left John to settle her.

"I'm not sleeping in that little bed," Scarlet announced when she returned from brushing her teeth.

John chose the path of least resistance and put her into the king sized bed. He sat quietly next to her and read while she tossed and turned and attempted to engage him in conversation. He won though, and eventually her thumb went into her mouth, and her hand into her hair, and she fell asleep. He waited for five minutes before creeping out of the bed and going to join Sherlock on the balcony.

Sherlock was leaning on the balcony, staring out to sea. The sun was sinking fast, but it was still bright enough to see.

"Don't fall off," John said, and he sat down and he opened a bottle of beer with his key-ring.

Sherlock came to sit next to him and took the drink that was handed across.

"This is nice," John said. "It was a good suggestion. Thank you."

"It was Scarlet's idea."

"I keep meaning to do this sort of thing more. I don't take Scarlet away anywhere enough."

"Mm."

"It's funny; I spent most of my life wanting to travel, and started to do so quite early. Mum and Dad couldn't really afford foreign holidays, but I took myself off to the Alps when I was seventeen to work in the chalets there for a season. Then there was other trips when I was a student, and I saw some part of most countries in Europe. Then of course the army took me further. I haven't felt the urge to go anywhere since then."

"Where did you go on your honeymoon?" Sherlock asked with a frown, wondering if he'd ever known.

"Mexico. It was brilliant too. Thinking about it, that was the last time I left the UK, and since Scarlet came along I've barely left London. I need to make more of an effort, I think. It's a big world. There's a lot for her to see."

"Mm."

They drank quietly for a while, and John waited.

"I suppose I travelled fairly well as a child," Sherlock said. "I seem to have had the inverse history to yours. We were shipped out all over the place as children to learn the culture and the history of various places. When I was old enough to protest loudly enough I stayed home or went into London. Mycroft and I lived in France for six months when we were just kids though, and Germany for six months more. Mostly they were shorter than that. We were put on a plane to various destinations for most of the school holidays."

"On your own?"

"Sometimes we had a nanny or tutor with us. Sometimes we were just met by people from suitable families. My parents never came with us though, if that's what you're asking."

John didn't quite know how to answer this so he shook his head and drank some beer. He waited some more. Sherlock sat on his chair looking tense.

"I surprised myself today, John," he said eventually.

"You surprise me most days."

Sherlock dismissed this. "The hypothesis was quite a simple one really. The plan was to introduce my mother to the best child in the world, and, from her reaction, I'd be able to see whether her problem was with children in general, or with me specifically."

John looked across at him. "I'm assuming that she didn't get on with Scarlet."

"She did not."

"Well then, now you know; it's not just you."

"Yes," Sherlock agreed. "The part that surprised me was how badly I reacted to her rejecting Scarlet. It didn't bring any sort of relief; if anything, it hurt more."

"Ah. Yes."

Sherlock looked at him. "Are you about to pepper me with some armchair psychology uttered as if it's sage wisdom?"

John snorted and choked on his beer. "Do you want me to?"

"I'm prepared for it anyway."

"OK, I'll say this; rejection is pretty much always hard…"

"Well, you'd know."

"Thank you. Rejection by someone who you desperately want to accept you is awful. But neither compare with how bad it feels when someone rejects your child. That's a whole new level of pain and rage, and it counts as a double rejection because they're rejecting a massive part of you too."

"Yes, that's how it felt." Sherlock thought about this for a while. He suddenly frowned. "Surely I don't need to remind you that Turnip isn't actually my child though."

"No, but you think of her as if she is."

"Do I?"

"You do. You've even named her for yourself, and you think Scarlet is the best child who ever walked the face of the earth."

"That doesn't mean I think of her as mine, and, of course, she is."

"No, she's probably not."

"No, you're wrong; she is."

John laughed. "Yeah, that's the feeling that I'm talking about. It doesn't really matter what she does, you turn it into something you really like, because that's how parents respond to their children. Remember when she was first born and you were training her up to be a consulting detective?"

Sherlock grunted.

"Well that didn't work out for you," John went on, "but obviously your preferred child would be one who would studiously follow you and have some ability to reflect your methods, and yet you still claim that Scarlet, who can't do that, is the best child who ever was. You've tried to teach her to read some six or seven times, and even when she eats the books you still claim that she's gifted. Apparently she never tells lies, but has a vivid and full imagination. When she makes a huge mess all over the flat, that's just evidence of her artistic sensibilities. She argues with you and doesn't do what you say, and you say she's standing up for herself and independently minded. None of this is a bad thing, Sherlock; I'm pleased that you like her for her, rather than for the person you want her to be; that's the way in which you think like a parent."

"You don't think that way though."

John snorted. "Oh I do, but one of us has clearly got to be vaguely sensible and grounded. I still can't resist spoiling her rotten sometimes."

"But you've always been happy for her to be herself," Sherlock insisted.

"Yeah. Doesn't mean that ten years ago, when I started dreaming about my progeny, I didn't have nice, ideal images of what I might get. Scarlet is different to all of them. Better, in my opinion. She's better than all of the strings of little doctors and rugby playing boys that lived in my mind. But that's what I'm talking about. We don't change her her to fit our image; we change our image of the ideal child to fit her."

They sat quietly and drank and watched the sky darken and the sea turn inky blue. John opened a second beer, but Sherlock shook his head.

"My parents didn't want a second child at all," he said. "They had Mycroft who was shaping up exactly as they intended, and I rather spoiled things for them."

"It was hardly deliberate, and at some point, at some level, they must have made a conscious choice to keep you."

"Perhaps. It was always very clear how I was expected to behave though, and they had no leniency at all. When Father left, and Mother disengaged, Mycroft took over. He taught me well according to the method they had specified. Do you mind if I smoke?"

"Yes, but feel free to do so anyway. And not in the room."

"I'd never smoke in the same room as Scarlet!" Sherlock said, horrified.

"See, thinking like a parent again."

"Humph." He lit a cigarette and smoked for a while, blowing the smoke downwind. "I do enjoy what I do," he said. "I don't want you to think that I don't. I enjoy my job; I like being brilliant."

"I know you do."

"Even if people respond poorly, and I earn anger instead of praise, I still like the performance."

"I know."

Sherlock took a long pull on the cigarette. "I've never been able to stop noticing the reaction though. Mycroft barely sees it at all, and he just works without the showing off, without people's reactions even registering on his consciousness. I always notice. I've fallen from his expectations too."

"He notices people's reactions. That's why he always behaves so impeccably."

"Mm. It's only ever on a cerebral level though so that he can work out the most sensible next move. He doesn't feel anything about it. I can't do that. Most of the time I can dismiss the feelings quite quickly, but I've always had to work for it. I always respond, and I always feel disappointed when people dislike me, and they always do."

"Not always," John pointed out.

"Yes but you're stupid."

John laughed. "You talk about it as if having an emotion is a bad thing. As if caring about what people think is a failing."

"It is."

"No it's not."

"Mycroft said it is."

"Well Mycroft's stupid."

"And yet you won't let me steal from him."

John sniggered. "We can't steal from people just because they're stupid. It's not something you should be punished for."

"Once again, Mycroft disagrees."

"Look, Sherlock, caring is something that the vast majority of people do, both in the sense that other people's response to them matters, and in the sense that we want them to be happy and comfortable. If you start paying attention to the way that you're responding to this, even if it's just acknowledging it and moving on rather than fighting it the whole time, you might just have a greater insight into the reactions that other people might have. In your line of work it would be a bad area to be ignorant of."

Sherlock stopped with his bottle half way to his mouth, processing this. "You know what? That's actually a really clever argument."

"Yes it is."

"Though arguably, if I'd have attributed Jennifer Wilson's actions to caring about her daughter rather than writing her password, I'd never have solved that case." He drank the rest of his drink.

"What? Oh, the pink lady, you mean. Well, I'm not suggesting it's infallible, I'm just suggesting an area where you could do with being a little more knowledgeable. And you would have done eventually anyway."

"Perhaps," Sherlock agreed.

"Certainly, there's no sense at all in crushing it. And there's absolutely no shame in the fact that you wanted your mother to praise you, especially when you brought your pride and joy to show her. There's no shame in wishing that someone, at some point, had dunked you in the sea, or had played a game with you where the only rule is 'the person who shouts Tapir wins'. Everybody does. It's normal. Well, perhaps not the Tapir thing."

"I'm not normal."

"No, you're not," John agreed. "But that doesn't mean that you can't be happy. I'm just saying; Mycroft is an idiot. Plus, if his attitude is that caring slows you down and interferes with your judgement, and you can be brilliant _and_ care at the same time, then you're clearly twice as good as he is."

Sherlock sat up. "You're right!"

"Yes I am. I'm also tired now, and aware that Scarlet is going to wake me up early, so I'm going to bed. If you're going to haunt the streets of Brighton for a bit, try to stay out of trouble, OK?"

"OK. I left my wallet at home though. I don't suppose you've got a spare one you could lend me."

"Don't worry; I packed both."

oOo

John woke up early and bleary. He rolled over and focussed on the words that were floating into the room.

"...and then the princess went to live in a big palace by the sea, and it had giant, sparkly lights on the ceiling, and a purple horse who talked and took her everywhere she wanted to be, and she did swimming in the sea every day, and the horse swam too, and they went to see the mermaids who sang to her beautiful songs."

"Morning, moppet," John said.

"Mornin'! Is the sea still there? Can we have breakfast now? Where is the kitchen? We should have brought Mrs Hudson."

John snorted and sat up. He rolled over and found his mobile, and he called Sherlock. It went straight to answerphone and Sherlock's voice sounded. "I refuse to get up until nine at the earliest; it's most definitely your turn to get up with her today. Though if you do find yourself heading back to the beach, feel free to knock on my door until I answer."

John sniggered and declined from leaving a message.


	72. Love

**To MEG. Happy birthday, love Pip. xxx**

Love

_Seven_

Sherlock had long since grown used to the noise. It was true that he had needed to make a certain amount of changes to the way he worked, and sometimes he dwelled upon this, but then he'd have to accept that John and Scarlet had also made compromises to their daily lives to accommodate him. He'd learned fairly quickly how to blot out the noise and mess when he needed to concentrate, and he had to admit that there was something quite comforting about the vague sensation of life happening around him while he was thinking, and the occasional cups of tea or sandwiches that appeared at his side at intervals through the day, often, conveniently, when he was just beginning to notice that he was hungry.

On the other hand, it was sometimes quite frustrating that he wasn't able to pace the room, or shoot or throw things, or just talk at John, only stopping when John said something dull, banal, _obvious_, and he'd suddenly make a connection and jump up, make calls or run away. There were days, days like today, _ now_ in fact, where he was aware he'd like to do _something_ that would make the disjointed thoughts in his head connect, but he was obliged to wait for Scarlet's bedtime before he could really start ranting.

He hadn't stopped thinking since he'd arrived home this afternoon. He'd placed himself at the kitchen table, back to the oven, facing the door, ready to scowl at incomers or get in the way of anyone who wanted to make dinner. He was surrounded by books, photos and maps, but he wasn't really looking at them. He had signalled the situation to John by refusing to answer when John had asked; 'Good day?' John had rolled his eyes, but a cup of tea had appeared at Sherlock's elbow just a few minutes later. Sherlock had indicated his displeasure about the 'wait until Scarlet's in bed' situation by not starting the tea for a full five minutes, but apparently this was too subtle for the good doctor to pick up on.

John had spent the afternoon chatting with Scarlet and supervising homework, and Sherlock had vanished inside his mind and left them to it.

It wasn't ideal. It wasn't just the waiting that was frustrating. He was aware that he could probably do without John in the same way that he could probably do without the cigarettes or the nicotine patches. He just chose not to because abstinence was far too much effort and not nearly so much fun. He was quite used to ignoring the things John said when he needed to think. After all, almost nothing novel or interesting issued forth from that man. Scarlet, however, was a whole different matter. Occasionally, she could say something that found its way into Sherlock's inner ear, zapped its way along his acoustic nerve, and to his brain, where it would bounce around his temporal lobe, sending all other carefully balanced thoughts crashing to the ground.

"Dad, are you proud of me?"

Sherlock's mind rushed so suddenly into the present he felt slightly dizzy. He looked into the living room. John and Scarlet were sitting side by side on the sofa watching something on the television.

"Course I'm proud of you, sweetheart," John replied.

"Why are you?"

"Because I am."

"But what for? What have I done?"

"Everything. I'm proud of you every day just because you're you."

Dull. Banal. Obvious.

John only glanced at Scarlet, and his tone was light, but Sherlock could tell that there was some emotion working away inside him, because his left arm snaked around Scarlet's waist to pull her closer.

"But what specially? And really every day? Even when I do something silly?"

"Even then."

John pulled Scarlet onto his lap, resting her head on his shoulder and resting his chin on her head. Sherlock recognised his 'slightly unnerved' position, when he and Scarlet became mutual comfort blankets for the other.

Scarlet was too big for this now; too tall. She'd grown so rapidly in recent months. Sherlock had been away for three weeks in Europe just the month before, and when he came home he'd been actually astonished by her. She'd grown at least an inch and a half in the short time he'd been away. John had laughed and accused him of exaggerating but he knew for sure that it was true. He'd almost begged to be allowed to measure her to prove it. He suspected it was an inch and two thirds.

The way she grew had changed recently too. He was used to seeing a rounding of her tummy, and her cheeks becoming slightly fleshier, and he knew his heralded a growth spurt. He enjoyed saying smugly to John; 'she'll need new clothes this weekend.' That hadn't happened for a while though. Scarlet just seemed to find these extra inches from somewhere he couldn't fathom, and just shot up and stretched her limbs, and she ended up looking willowy and taut. She'd eat ferociously, all pickiness cast aside as she responded to her body's desire to feed these new cells.

She moved differently now. When she ran along the street or in the park, her arms moved correctly, pumping and balancing her body, and her legs would propel her forward in long, easy strides. He was used to watching her run slowly, her feet flailing in any random direction she could find while her arms flapped merrily and uselessly around her. Now he had to put in a little bit of effort if he wanted to keep up with her. He was vaguely aware that if he didn't want her to outrun him in just a few years, he'd have to cut back on the secret cigarettes.

This was only relevant outside. As soon as she was confined in a smaller area, she seemed to lose any control at all over her limbs. There seemed to be too much of them for her, and they kept darting out to knock things off surfaces, or brush past things that she hadn't been able to reach before. She tripped over the extra lengths of her feet several times a day, and had developed a habit of walking into things that she reached far quicker than she was expecting.

Sherlock had suggested they tape pillows to the coffee table and other hard edges while she was growing into them. 'Growing into what?' John had asked. 'All the extra _her_,' he'd replied, and John and Scarlet had laughed, unaware that there was any problem at all.

She thought differently now too. Sherlock had imagined Scarlet's childish thoughts fluttering every which way, resting briefly on things that sparkled or shone, but moving on quickly. He was startled when he noticed her blue eyes, piercing, examining, _thinking._ She'd come to him once as he was experimenting with various household chemicals on human flesh. 'Is that a human hand?' she'd asked. Not; 'what are you doing?' which is what she'd have asked a year ago, and which he'd realised was code for 'I'm bored; entertain me', rather than any desire to learn.

On this occasion, she'd fixed the hand, the chemicals, and him with her blue eyes, examining them, holding them down, _observing_ them. He'd confirmed the hand, and he'd explained what he was doing. 'Is it ethical?' she'd asked. He wondered when she'd learned that word. He'd explained why he needed to know; what the point was. She'd followed his thoughts around the kitchen with a faint frown dividing her eyebrows. She wasn't sure. She wouldn't commit.

Then it came; the sudden moment when realisation dawned, and she told him that yes, sometimes it would be necessarily to experiment on human flesh, unnerving and mildly nauseating as it might be, in order protect or help actual, living people. The experiment was sound; he'd provided enough of a control to value his results, and had made adjustments to account for the fact that this flesh was dead. These weren't her actual words, but her thoughts were clear. Her eyes had hovered over the burn marks on the back of his own hand, but she hadn't commented on them. She just nodded, satisfied with this new knowledge.

He had been so excited that he'd almost pulled her around the flat in a victory lap. It was too late though; she'd simply walked away as if nothing important had happened at all.

She hadn't been a baby or an infant for a long time now. It had been years since she'd fitted the 'toddler' moniker that John favoured for a while. He thought now that the 'little girl' stage was behind her too. She'd shed these terms like a butterfly shedding a chrysalis. She was suddenly and unmistakably 'child'.

So there she was; this new, limby, thinky child, demanding to know if she made her father proud. He wondered if John would come up with any answer that would satisfy her.

"But what if I did something really bad," she asked now.

"I might not be proud of the actual thing that you do, not if it was really, _really_ bad, but, I wouldn't stop loving you. I'd still want to know why you did it. You might find that even if the thing you did was really bad, I could be proud of the reasons that you did it if they were good."

"But what if I killed someone. What then?"

"Well, I'd rather you didn't kill someone."

"Why?"

"Because it takes a long time to forget it."

There was silence.

Ask him why! Sherlock willed her. Ask him how he knows that! That's the next, logical step in this conversation.

She didn't though. She just nestled into him with a small sigh, and he kissed the top of her head.

Sherlock sighed too. So much unexamined. Too much unsaid, untested.

"Oh!" he surprised even himself with the shout. He was up and running out of the door, hesitating only to grab his coat and scarf from the peg behind the door. "It was the father!" he called to them. "Parents are stupid! Thank you, Scarlet!" and then he was gone.

Scarlet and John glanced at each other, thought about commenting on this behaviour, but it was old news to both of them now.

John wondered what Scarlet would ask next. Whether she'd be distracted onto this strangeness, or whether she'd sigh and say once again; 'what is the _point_ of Sherlock?" and he'd have to remind her, yet again, that she adored him, and she'd eventually concede that she did. Sometimes she was as fickle and as difficult as Sherlock.

"Can we have chips for dinner?" she asked.

John smiled. "When did you last eat a vegetable?"

"Yesterday. We had peas."

"Go and look in the veg basket, choose something, and we'll work out what we can put with it."

She sighed but obeyed.

She walked past the place where Sherlock had been sitting. John had been aware that he'd been having two simultaneous conversations. That Sherlock had been listening intently, and that there would probably be a recall at some point when Sherlock remembered.

He'd had similar variations on the same subject with both of them. Scarlet had occasionally fallen into these fits of insecurity and had wanted to know that he loved her, why he loved her, what would happen if he stopped loving her? Occasionally this upset or worried him, but over the course of time, he'd learned that they were just brief lapses in her general confidence, and if she sometimes wanted to hear the words out loud for whatever reason, then who was he to argue?

Sherlock was a whole different kettle of fish. He returned to the subject over and over. From that first conversation in the park, recorded forever inside John Watson; 'a travel-agent? A _travel-agent?_ How could you not be disappointed with a _travel-agent_?' To the morning after the beach in Brighton; 'but what if she does something? What if she does something awful? I know you don't want to turn away from her ever, but what if she was just too much for you one time?' 'But what could she possibly do?' he'd asked, 'to make me stop loving her?' 'Maybe she hurts someone, and does it deliberately. Maybe she hurts me? Maybe she hurts you?' John had just shaken his head. 'It's not just flesh and blood,' Sherlock had persisted, 'we've both seen parents who treat their children awfully; beyond contempt, like animals sometimes. It's not just flesh and blood, so what is it? What is it that makes you love her beyond all other people?' John had had no answer, and Sherlock hadn't been satisfied. He continued to watch, observe, scrutinise, and John sometimes felt the weight of responsibility of teaching Sherlock by example how families generally work. 'If you can't understand it, can you at least accept it?' he'd asked one time, exasperated. Sherlock hadn't answered. He had, at least shut up for a while though.

"I'll eat maybe one carrot," Scarlet said, holding a bag aloft.

"OK, we'll have them with pie and potatoes. Sherlock looks nearly finished, so we'll make enough for him."

"He'll need a lot."

"Yes. So will you. Three helpings you had yesterday. A new personal record, I think; well done!"

They crossed each other at the kitchen divide, and John gently pulled the ponytail of his tall, stringy daughter. He leant across the table to pick up Sherlock's empty tea mug, which he'd huffily deigned fit to drink after some unfathomable internal struggle.

He started to do the washing up, and spent a brief, indulgent moment of knowing that he would love Scarlet with ever atom of his body, every day until the moment he died. He wondered if Sherlock would ever find anyone who he loved the same way. He certainly hoped so. He frowned, and wondered if he already had.


	73. Arguments

**Hi there! I am sorry for my general hiatus from fanfic at the moment. I am writing a lot - tons in fact - but non of it is suitable for publication. It's been fun, just doing my own thing for a while, but it does leave you lot short, so sorry. **

_Scarlet is six._

Arguments.

John stormed out of the bathroom, his nice relaxing bath abandoned as the noise from the living room had continued to grow and grow.

'What the hell is going on here!' he bellowed.

Two outraged faces glared at John, one from above, and the other from below.

'He broke up my den!' Scarlet shouted.

'She took my best pestle!'

'What was your best pestle doing in arm's reach?'

'I was doing an experiment!'

'I was using it for my cooking!'

'What is with the two of you at the moment!' John bellowed over the top of both of them. 'Seriously! I would like just ten minutes, just _ten_ without you two starting up a stupid argument! You've been doing this for days, and I've been at work, and I'm tired out, and I just can't handle it any more.'

'She started it!' Sherlock said.

'No! He did!'

John took a deep breath. The two combatants hesitated, slightly concerned that there might be a full explosion coming, but John started again in a calm and very carefully measured tone.

'Right, I don't want to hear another argument between the two of you in this flat…'

'But John!

'But Daddy!'

'No!' John took a second to rein his voice back in. 'No, it has to stop. I simply cannot handle this amount of nonsense! It's driving me insane! One of you has to just grow up now, and to be frank, Sherlock, I'm looking at you!'

'Why me?'

'Because she's six!' John yelled.

Scarlet put out her tongue at Sherlock. Not quite quickly enough though, and John rolled his eyes.

'Scarlet! Stop antagonising him!'

Sherlock smirked.

'He's pulling a face!' Scarlet cried quickly.

'I am not!' Sherlock said.

John gave him a very dangerous look.

'Now the two of you, tidy this flat, right now.'

'But I'm playing…' Scarlet whined.

'I'm _working_,' Sherlock complained.

'I don't care! I'm going to go and get dressed, and when I come down, I expect a tidy, and above all, a _quiet_ flat.

Two faces scowled.

'Good.' John turned and walked calmly towards the stairs. He was just outside the living room door when he heard Scarlet.

'That was your fault.'

'_My_ fault! Mine? You're the one who…'

John turned on his heel, got as far as the doorway, and roared.

'STOP THIS RIGHT NOW! I HAVE HAD ABOUT AS MUCH AS I CAN FUCKING WELL DEAL WITH!'

The silence that followed this was extraordinary. It seemed to have the same qualities as ice, or of electricity.

Scarlet's mouth hung wide open, and Sherlock's eyes grew, first with surprise and then with delight.

'No, wait a minute,' John said calmly.

'John!' Sherlock said, a grin starting to form.

'No, don't you dare laugh!' John said.

'Oh, _John_.'

'Now…'

'You just swore at your six year old child!'

'I mostly swore at…'

Sherlock turned to Scarlet, who was still trying to work out if this was a good thing, or was actually very, very bad.

'Scarlet, that right there, that was the sound of your father surrendering the moral high ground.'

'No, you pushed me…' John started.

'Such _dreadful_ language to use in front of an innocent child.'

'Stop it!' But John was finding it hard not to laugh himself.

'Well, I think we all outshone ourselves there,' Sherlock said. He put a hand up and gave Scarlet a high five. 'Right, let's tidy this place up and work out just how long your father has to spend on the naughty step for that one, shall we.?'

Scarlet grinned, and started picking her books off the floor.

Sherlock gave John a very lofty look. 'I think you, John, should spend a couple of hours upstairs on your own, thinking about what you have done.'

John was almost certain that he saw a wink.


End file.
